3  3  a  E 


"Haskins  quizzically  looked   him   over  " 


THE  LASH 


OLIN    L.    LYMAN 

Author  of  "The  Trail  of  the  Grand  Seigneur" 


BOSTON 

RICHARD   G.   BADGER 

THE   GORHAM    PRESS 
1909 


Copyright   1909  by  RICHARD  (1.  B.\nr,F.k 
All  Rights  Reserved 


F'rinted  at  The  Gorham   Press,  Boston,   U.  S.  A. 


TO    C.  K.  A 


2228950 


PAGE 
9 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

I  A  Star  Chamber  Session      .     .     . 

II  An  Arrival l& 

III  Micky 29 

IV  Fists  and  the  Man 36 

V  The  Ironworkers'  Ball— and  Maisie       .      .  47 

VI  The  Web 61 

VII  Loneliness         67 

VIII  An  Evening  Call         77 

IX  Not  on  the  Programme         87 

X  The  Little  Red  Devil 99 

XI  In  the  Morning 106 

XII  Why  She  Cried 113 

XIII  A  Wager 122 

XIV  A  Discredited  Henchman 133 

XV  Useful  Information          145 

XVI  His  Better  Side 155 

XVII  The  Coup  in  Sight       ...  .165 

XVIII  A  Counter  Move i78 

XIX  Suspense       .                                                 •  187 

XX  Out  of  the  Past     .      .                       .      •      •  195 

XXI  The  Lash          .      .  204 

XXII  The  Story         .      .  215 

XXITI  Wanderlust      „      .      .      .                              -  224 

XXIV  The  Long  Road       ....            .      .  234 


THE  LASH 


THE    LASH 

CHAPTER  I 

A   STAR    CHAMBER    SESSION 

THE  speaker  paused   for  a  moment  to  pass  his 
handkerchief  over  his  fevered  brow.     Up  from 
the  ugly,  leering,  little  eyes  swept  the  swabbing 
linen,  traversing  the  smooth  top  of  the   round 
head   and   disappearing   mysteriously   at  the   rear.     The 
reason   for  this   was   obvious.     The  teeth   of  time  take 
kindly   to   the   hirsute   and  the  speaker  was  very  bald. 
Only  a  narrow  fringe  of  reddish  hair  divided  the  rear 
depression   of  his  fevered   brow   from  the  nape  of  his 
fat  red  neck. 

A  plump  and  hairy  fist  smote  the  table  and  the  glasses 
jingled.  "Don't  fool  yourselves,  you  young  fellows," 
advised  the  bald  gentleman,  in  a  curious  gusty  voice. 
"I've  been  all  through  it,  clean  to  the  retired  list,"  with 
a  wicked  wink,  "and  I  know,  that's  all.  You've  got  to 
work  harder  this  year  than  you  did  the  first ;  you've  got 
to  a  point  where  there  ain't  no  layin'  down  for  you  if 
you  want  to  keep  on  fodderin'.  'Cause  why?  'Cause 
they're  on,  or  think  they  are,  and  they're  gettin'  uneasy. 
You  think  everything's  lovely,  do  you?  Well,  take  a 
little  advice  from  the  old  man  that's  now  on  the  sideline, 
and  aim  to  get  busy  from  now  on." 


io  THE  LASH 

He  again  swabbed  his  illimitable  brow,  peering  cun 
ningly  at  them  with  wicked  little  eyes  that  gleamed  un 
pleasantly  on  either  side  of  a  bulbous,  crimsoned  nose, 
while  he  chewed  complacently  at  a  black  cigar.  In  com 
mon  with  the  rest  of  the  small  company  he  was  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  for  it  was  very  hot.  A  mere  ghost  of  a 
breeze  stole  in  through  the  window  screen,  against  which 
foiled  moths,  attracted  by  the  light  within,  bumped  in 
vain.  A  white-aproned  waiter,  summoned  by  an  electric 
bell,  entered,  removed  the  empty  glasses  and  received  a 
fresh  order.  With  his  departure  the  bald  gentleman  was 
again  heard  from. 

"Well,"  he  snorted  aggressively,  "what's  eatin'  you? 
Don't  you  believe  me?" 

"Why,"  drawled  a  lank,  middle-aged  gentleman  with  a 
generally  unsophisticated  look  that  increased  the  efficiency 
of  his  talents  for  the  peculiar  use  to  which  he  devoted 
them ;  "I  suppose  it's  safe  to  be  on  the  safe  side,  but 
there's  no  use  in  borrowin'  trouble  any  more  than  you 
have  to.  Everything  looks  smooth  to  me." 

"Pals,"  remarked  the  bald  gentleman  impressively, 
"remember  this.  The  only  way  to  stave  off  the  fore 
closure  is  to  keep  borrowin',  and  it's  the  smoothest 
whisky  that  gives  you  the  rockiest  head  the  next  morning. 
'Cause  why?  'Cause  you  get  enthused  and  hit  it  up  too 
hard.  Now  that's  where  our  danger  flag's  out.  We've 
found  this  an  easy  town,  we've  worked  it  for  all  it's 
worth,  puttin'  it  in  plain  English;  the  reformers  ain't 
never  woke  up  and  you're  takin'  the  attitude  that  they 
never  will.  Boys,  it's  a  mistake.*  They  do,  sometimes. 
You  don't  want  to  plan  on  no  sleepy  campaign,  if  you'll 


A  STAR  CHAMBER  SESSION  it 

take  it  from  a  sideliner  that's  'retired'  but  wishes  you 
well." 

"That's  all  very  well,  Alderman."  said  a  plump,  moon 
faced  fellow  across  the  table,  "but  we've  had  these  scares 
before  and  they've  been  for  nothing.  Two  years  ago 
Fusion  thought  it  had  us  beat  and  we  was  afraid  it  was 
going  to  turn  the  trick.  Remember  the  vote  ?  Why,  we 
got  the  laugh  from  our  own  men.  We  needn't  have  hus 
tled  ourselves.  It  was  a  dead  open-and-shut." 

"It's  because  the  town  don't  believe  half  it  hears,"  in 
terpolated  the  lank  gentleman.  "I'll  say  this,  that  the  old 
man — drink  to  him,  boys ! — is  the  best  organizer  in  this 
country  today,  and  he  leaves  the  blindest  trail.  They 
can't  bring  anything  home,  not  while  we're  in  control." 

"That's  what  I'm  tellin'  you,"  remarked  the  bald  one 
grimly.  "You've  got  to  hang  on  to  the  control.  Let  it 
slip  away  from  you  while  you're  nappin'  and  how  long 
would  it  be  before  the  town  was  next?  What  would  the 
hide  of  any  man  in  this  room  be  worth?"  His  voice 
had  instinctively  lowered ;  his  head  was  thrust  forward, 
his  little  eyes  were  piercing.  "I  tell  you  it  always  pays 
to  keep  busy  all  the  time." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  The  half  dozen  com 
panions  of  the  speaker  surveyed  him  minutely  but  with 
visible  respect.  After  all,  he  could  give  any  and  all  of 
them  pointers  in  the  gentle  art  of  grafting  and  they  knew 
it.  Moreover,  his  words  had  at  last  struck  home,  had 
awakened  them  from  a  false  sense  of  security.  Alderman 
Goldberg  had  been  through  the  mill,  and  had  fed  at  the 
public  crib  at  intervals  no  bettter  judged  than  times  when 
he  elected  to  remain  in  discreet  retirement,  in  his  cyclone 
cellar,  until  ominous  signs  on  the  municipal  weather 


12  THE  LASH 

horizon  had  disappeared.  So,  because  they  knew  that  he 
spoke  by  the  card,  his  companions  now  paid  him  the 
tribute  of  uneasy  silence. 

The  lanky  individual,  Dick  Peterson  by  name,  finally 
resumed  the  conversation.  "Well,"  said  he,  "this  is  only 
a  preliminary  to  the  main  event  anyway.  Wonder  what's 
keepin'  the  old  man?  Here  we've  been  waitin'  an  hour. 
We'll  see  what  he  says.  I  haven't  mentioned  'campaign' 
to  him  myself." 

"I  know  what  he'll  say,"  retorted  Goldberg.  "Just 
what  I've  been  tellin'  you,  to  get  busy.  That's  why  he 
called  you  here  tonight,  to  dig  in  the  spurs  a  little.  The 
old  man's  no  fool.  Hark !  I  guess  he's  comin'  now." 

There  was  a  soft  tread  outside,  a  door  opened  and  a 
man  entered  the  room.  Nodding  slightly  in  response  to 
their  greeting,  he  seated  himself  in  a  chair,  at  the  head 
of  the  table,  which  had  evidently  been  reserved  for  him. 
Peterson  pushed  some  cigars  toward  him,  at  the  same 
time  thrusting  an  interrogative  finger  toward  the  electric 
bell.  The  newcomer  shook  his  head,  and  selecting  one 
of  the  cigars,  leaned  back  in  his  chair  as  he  leisurely 
lighted  it. 

John  Shaughnessy  was  as  unlike  the  cartooned  type  of 
political  boss  as  could  be  imagined.  He  looked  decidedly 
ordinary,  and  might  have  been  taken  for  anything  from  a 
dejected  clerk  of  middle  age  to  an  unostentatious  gambler. 
His  garb  was  quiet ;  there  was  an  utter  absence  of  vocifer 
ous  jewelry.  In  person  he  was  lank  and  slightly  over 
middle  height.  The  face  was  singularly  impassive ;  that 
of  a  gambler  to  whom  nothing  apparently  mattered.  A 
hawk  nose  and  small  black  moustache  had  Shaughnessy, 
also  a  pair  of  heavy-lidded  eyes. 


A  STAR  CHAMBER  SESSION  13 

These  eyes,  when  they  glanced  casually  at  you,  held  a 
lustreless,  ennuied  expression  that  impressed  you,  did 
you  trouble  to  entertain  any  impression  at  all,  with  a 
definite  idea  of  somnolence  in  Shaughnessy.  A  discour 
aged  gambler,  you  might  think  casually,  had  you  not  the 
honor  of  his  acquaintance.  But  did  you  happen  to  kindle 
Shaughnessy 's  interest  in  any  way,  lo !  a  startling  change. 
The  heavy  lids  contracted  ever  so  little  about  the  black 
eyes,  which  shot  forth  gleams  that  revealed  Shaughnessy 
in  a  new  and  sinister  light.  They  bared  a  sleepless  vigi 
lance,  an  unpleasant  concentration,  which  inspired  the  per 
son  regarded  with  a  nervousness  that  was  justified.  For 
when  those  eyes,  but  a  moment  before  lustreless  and  dead, 
lightened  with  that  strange  gleam,  the  dispirited  clerk  or 
discouraged  gambler  vanished.  In  his  stead,  regarding 
you  with  a  cold,  basilisk,  snaky  stare  that  pierced  you 
through  and  through,  there  was  revealed — Shaughnessy. 

It  was  his  wonted  mask  of  impassive  features  and 
lustreless  eyes  that  long  caused  Shaughnessy  to  be  sur 
prisingly  and  generally  underestimated.  Men  chose  not 
to  believe  that  one  whose  general  appearance  so  lacked 
significance  was  capable  of  the  stealth  and  finesse  in 
large,  dark  matters  that  a  portion  of  the  press  emphatic 
ally  but  rather  gropingly  attributed  to  Shaughnessy.  So  it 
was  Shaughnessy's  good  fortune,  for  his  nefarious  ends, 
that  most  men  refused  to  take  him  too  seriously.  The 
majority  chanced  never  to  rouse  his  interest ;  hence, 
never  saw  the  optical  gleam.  For  the  minority  who  did, 
Shaughnessy  was  a  man  transformed,  invested  with  pow 
er,  genuine  and  unmistakable. 

Following  the  leader's  entrance,  the  company  waited 
silently  for  him  to  speak.  He  favored  them  with  a  mo- 


I4  THE   LASH 

merit's  reflective  stare,  puffing  billowing  smoke  clouds. 
Then  he  spoke,  and  his  voice  was  as  cold  and  impersonal 
as  his  white  face. 

"I  called  you  together,  boys,''  said  he,  "because  there's 
work  ahead  for  us."  There  was  a  significant  nod  from 
Goldberg.  "It  doesn't  look  bad  at  a  first  glance,"  con 
tinued  Shaughnessy,  "but  a  look-in  will  show  you  that  it 
will  pay  to  hump  some.  There's  nothing  open  yet,  but 
we've  got  to  face  the  hottest  fight  we  have  had.  Well," 
with  a  grim  smile,  "we'll  do  it  and  we'll  win  out.  We've 
got  to." 

"Yes,"  remarked  Peterson,  with  a  deep  sigh.  "We've 
got  to,  all  right,  governor." 

"That's  what  I  was  tellin'  'em,  Shaughnessy."  put  in 
Goldberg,  rolling  his  cigar  to  the  lee  corner  of  his  mouth. 
"They  wanted  to  give  me  the  laugh.  Thought  every 
thing  was  lovely.  They'll  know  when  they've  sidestepped 
the  shivers  as  often  as  we  have.  I  tell  you,  the  clearest 
day  is  the  one  you  want  to  have  your  umbrella  ready  for, 
and  that's  no  lie." 

"No,"  assented  Shaughnessy,  "that's  no  lie.  It's  going 
to  rain  votes  this  fall  and  we've  got  to  get  busy  in 
mortgaging  the  majority  of  'em.  If  we  don't,  we  get 
caught  napping,  that's  all,  and  it's  us  to  the  woods.  I 
needn't  tell  you,  of  course,  that  as  late  as  a  year  ago  we 
could  have  defied  'em  to  put  the  hooks  on  us,  even  if 
they'd  got  a  look-in  at  the  polls.  We  had  things  tied  up 
so  they  couldn't  have  touched  us ;  we  could  have  stayed 
right  on.  But  there've  been  some  bad  mistakes  made ; 
some  instructions  exceeded  and  some  things  we  couldn't 
help,  being  forced  into  'em.  Truth  is,  boys,  that  if  through 
any  chance  we're  done  up  in  this  coming  election,  we're 


A  STAR  CHAMBER  SESSION  15 

caught  right  out  in  the  open  with  a  wagonload  of  goods, 
and  there's  no  time  to  hide  'em.  That's  the  situation 
we're  facing  and  it's  one  that  calls  for  cutting  out  sleep 
till  after  election  day." 

"Well,  we've  done  it  before,"  remarked  Willie  Shute, 
the  moon-faced  gentleman,  as  he  pressed  the  button  for 
another  round  of  drinks.  "What  the  devil  is  sleep,  any 
way  ?  Waste  of  time." 

"It's  a  waste  of  time  in  politics,"  assented  the  leader, 
"unless  you  want  to  wake  up  to  find  you've  been  buried 
alive  with  no  air  tube."  Willie  Shute,  following  the 
laughter  which  greeted  this  grisly  pleasantry,  was  dis 
covered  looking  about  him  with  vague  apprehension. 

"Thought  I  heard  someone  snickerin'/'  he  explained. 
"Before  we  did." 

Peterson  glanced  significantly  at  Shute's  whisky  glass. 
"Preliminary  to  the  main  event,"  he  commented.  "Saw 
off,  or  you'll  be  hearing  bands  of  music  in  the  morning." 

Shaughnessy  leaned  forward  upon  the  table.  "Well, 
let's  get  down  to  business,"  he  remarked.  "Let's  talk 
things  over,  look  at  all  we've  got  to  buck  against  and 
plan  to  buck  it  in  the  good  old  way.  Give  us  another 
whack  at  this  and  in  the  next  two  years  we'll  be  ready 
to  retire  with  a  trail  blinder  than  an  eyeless  fish  in  the 
Mammoth  Cave.  But  it  would  be  all  day  with  us  to 
lose  just  now ;  we  can't  afford  it.  In  some  ways  we're 
better  fixed  for  the  fight  than  we've  been  before.  We 
own  one  newspaper  body  and  soul,  though  we're  not  ad 
vertising  it.  We've  practically  clinched  another  of  'em, 
there's  a  couple  that  don't  count  anyway,  and  then,  there's 
that  damned  Courier." 

"What  figure  does  it  cut?"  sneered  Goldberg.    "What 


ifi  THE   LASH 

do  you  care?  You've  got  good  organs  of  your  own." 
"I'd  give  the  lot  of  'em,  pro  and  con,"  responded 
Shaughnessy  reflectively,  "if  I  could  either  switch  that 
sheet  onto  my  line  or  work  it  for  a  neutral  sidetrack.  It's 
got  more  real,  solid  influence  than  the  lot  of  'em  put 
together.  It's  always  been  against  me,  more  or  less,  said 
I  was  'some'  back  in  the  days  when  the  other  papers  gave 
it  the  laugh.  Last  election  it  let  up  a  little.  I  was  be 
ginning  to  get  in.  Then  old  Westlake  bought  up  the  con 
trolling  interest  unexpectedly  a  while  ago,  and  they're 
getting  ready  to  lam  it  to  us  this  fall,  boys,  and  don't  you 
forget  it.  We  can't  do  anything  with  Westlake.  You 
know  I  was  trying,  through  sources  that  ought  to  have 
been  influential,  to  get  in  an  entering  wedge  by  prac 
tically  throwing  the  whole  batch  of  city  printing  at  West- 
lake's  head.  Well,  what  do  you  think?  Westlake  was 
on  all  right  and  it's  a  case  of  no  compromise.  Matter 
went  to  the  business  office  and  was  referred  directly  to 
him,  as  a  matter  of  course.  He  sent  back  word  that  the 
Courier  was  planning  to  print  a  great  deal  about  the  city 
"gov."  during  the  next  few  months  that  it  wouldn't  charge 
anything  for." 

"Well,"  inquired  Goldberg,  after  a  moment's  silence, 
"what  good  is  that  going  to  do  him  ?" 

''Nothing  yet,"  replied  Shaughnessy,  the  light  of  battle 
kindling  in  his  strange  eyes.  "He's  got  nothing  that'll 
do  us  any  real  harm,  and  I  think  we  can  see  to  it  that 
there'll  be  no  leaking  on  anything  that  will.  It's  up  to 
us  just  to  pull  down  the  blinds,  and  keep  'em  pulled,  and 
then  let  Westlake  howl  about  what  he  suspects  ;  he  won't 
know  anything.  We've  got  respectable  papers,"  with  an 
ugly  sneer,  "controlled  by  respectable  men  on  our  side, 


A  STAR  CHAMBER  SESSION  17 

too.  If  Westlake  or  any  man  of  Westlake's  can  dig  up 
anything  after  we've  nailed  it  down,  why,  he's  welcome 
to  it.  But  now  let's  get  busy  and  talk  things  over." 

A  colloquy  followed  which  would  have  electrified  the 
citizens  of  this  community,  could  they  have  heard  it. 
Ancient,  mysterious  skeletons  were  exhumed  in  that  talk, 
skeletons  which  had  been  in  the  flesh  the  source  of  much 
speculation.  There  were  recent  dark  issues,  too,  and 
there  was  a  murky  present  and  a  future  that  would  be 
murkier,  did  things  go  well.  All  told,  an  opportunity  to 
listen  to  that  conversation  would  have  benefited  the  ad 
herents  of  municipal  decency. 

After  two  hours  of  reminiscence,  of  planning  for  the 
campaign  and  speculating  on  the  future,  Shaughnessy  rose 
with  a  yawn.  "Get  a  good  night's  sleep,  boys,"  he  sug 
gested  dryly,  "and  then  don't  sleep  again  till  the  day 
after  we  do  the  old  ladies  at  the  polls."  They  laughed 
as  they  followed  him  out  of  the  private  room  and  down 
stairs. 

There  was  a  slight  stir  in  a  corner  of  the  room.  It 
subsided  as  a  waiter  entered  to  clear  and  tidy  the  table. 
With  the  receding  steps  of  the  servitor  down  the  stairs, 
from  behind  the  sideboard  in  the  corner  softly  stepped  a 
man.  He  looked  cautiously  about  him,  then,  walking  to 
the  window,  he  quietly  withdrew  the  screen,  and,  gaining 
a  convenient  roof  outside,  replaced  the  screen  carefully. 
Upon  the  roof  his  stealthily  receding  footsteps  were 
audible. 


A 


CHAPTER  II 

AN    ARRIVAL 

44  ^  MBITION  is  an  itch  for  something  you 
haven't  got  and  never  expect  to  get,"  re 
marked  Peters,  rapping  his  pipe  bowl 
against  the  edge  of  the  desk  and  reach 
ing  for  Mead's  tobacco  box.  He  owned  none  of  his 
own  and  the  rest  of  the  force  formed  a  convenient  and 
interminable  tobacco  trust  for  him. 

"You  might  add  to  that  observation  the  clause  'but 
others  have,'  Pete,"  put  in  Charlie  Kirk,  while  Mead 
resignedly  watched  Peters  jamming  an  unwieldy  wad  of 
the  weed  into  the  bowl  with  his  thumb,  to  brazenly  reach 
for  more  the  next  instant.  "Besides,  that  remark  isn't 
original.  It's  gone  the  rounds  of  the  papers.  I  don't 
know  where  they  pinched  it,  but  I'll  bet  it  wasn't  from 
you." 

"Your  observation  does  you  credit,  Sherlock,"  re 
torted  Peters,  undisturbed.  "If  you  would  exercise  a 
little  of  that  faculty  on  the  job,  maybe  the  old  man  would 
raise  your  attenuated  wage." 

The  quiet  voice  of  the  city  editor  broke  in  upon  the 
amiable  colloquy.  "Here,  Kirk,"  said  he,  "and  you, 
Peters,  I  want  you.  Go  and  relieve  Smallwood  and  Lynn 
at  that  visiting  convention  and  tell  them  to  hurry  here 
with  their  stuff.  They've  been  there  since  seven.  I 
thought  the  thing  would  be  over  by  now." 


AX  ARRIVAL  19 

Kirk  and  Peters  left  Mead's  desk,  where  they  had  been 
loafing  for  a  few  spare  moments,  and,  slipping  on  their 
coats,  walked  to  the  elevator  and  sank  streetward.  The 
city  editor  delved  again  into  the  debris  on  his  groaning 
desk.  It  was  a  rush  night.  The  few  men  in  the  great 
room,  for  most  of  the  reporters  were  still  out,  were  bent 
over  portly  pads  or  pecked  busily  at  typewriters.  • 

Mead  scrawled  away  at  the  lecture  story  to  which  he 
had  been  assigned  that  evening.  Warming  to  his  work 
he  rounded  out  many  of  the  professor's  periods  for  him 
and  added  some  good  things  of  his  own.  Now  and  then 
he  read  a  paragraph  with  complacency  and  sifted  in  a  few 
more  adjectives.  He  had  heard  the  old  fairy  tale  of 
speakers  giving  reporters  credit  for  improving  their 
efforts.  Moreover,  he  was  but  lately  hatched  from  the 
high  school  and  was  nearing  the  end  of  his  probationary 
period  upon  the  Courier.  As  with  the  debut  of  most  of 
the  boys,  coherence  was  smothered  in  verbiage.  Mead's 
written  words  flowed  on  like  rivers  to  the  sea  You 
who  speak  by  the  card  will  well  remember  the  turbid 
freshets  you  handed  in,  long  ago,  with  a  sort  of  awe  to 
think  you  had  penned  them.  You  looked  for  a  little 
corresponding  awe  on  the  part  of  the  city  editor.  He 
merely  grunted,  and  the  next  morning  it  was  a  wise 
father  that  knew  his  brain-child.  The  anxious  parent 
looked  twice  through  the  pages,  finally  finding  the  change 
ling,  dwarfed  and  subdued,  in  a  modest  corner  next  the 
patent  medicine  "ads."  Stripped  of  the  gauzy  gewgaws 
of  fancy  with  which  you  had  complacently  adorned  it,  it 
lay  in  its  stark  cerements  of  staring  simplicity,  a  hard, 
terse,  graphic,  uncompromising  fact.  That  salient  bar, 
the  editorial  pencil,  had  dammed  the  winding,  sunlit 


20  THE  LASH 

stream  at  its  very  source,  forcing  it  home  by  a  short  cut 
that  skipped  much  romantic  scenery  but  saved  time  for 
the  navigator.  You  read  the  mangled  remnant  of  that 
early  flight  and  cursed  the  city  editor's  lack  of  literary 
appreciation.  Afterward,  when  the  years  had  brought 
you  wisdom,  you  wondered  why  he  had  kept  you  at  all. 
Yet  you  knew,  after  all, — for  the  veterans  were  tyros 
once. 

Mead  toiled  on,  the  mirage  of  an  achieved  literary  gem 
on  his  mental  horizon.  It  was  the  same  mirage,  old  yet 
ever  young,  that  flashes  in  transient  glory  and  fades  as 
often  and  as  miserably  before  the  wistful  eyes  of  the 
veteran  in  letters  as  with  the  tyro ;  the  dream  of  an  un 
attainable  ideal,  which  mocks  and  melts  away,  a  phantom 
of  the  sands. 

His  task  completed,  Mead  brought  his  masterpiece  to 
the  city  editor's  desk.  "The  lecture,  Mr.  Harkins,"  said 
he,  with  a  thrill  of  secret  pride.  A  sense  of  polished 
erudition  welled  strong  within  him.  Harkins  might  now 
see  what  the  real  thing  in  literary  skill  could  do  with  the 
most  prosaic  of  assignments. 

Harkins  had  cleared  his  desk  pretty  well  in  the  past 
few  minutes  and  his  assistants  were  busy  in  consequence, 
He  slapped  the  masterpiece  irreverently  on  the  desk.  Like 
a  withering  blast  his  trained  eyes  swept  the  first  page, 
which  was  heavily  laden  with  elaborate  introduction. 
There  were  a  few  fierce  swoops  of  a  blue  pencil.  Words 
fell  in  the  ranks  like  scattered  skirmishers,  then  platoons 
of  phrases  were  swept  away.  The  enfiladed  page  fell  face 
down  on  the  desk.  Another,  similarly  mangled,  followed. 
Only  a  few  gallant  remnants  of  that  imposing  array  re 
mained.  It  was  the  survival  of  the  fittest,  the  obliteration 


AN  ARRIVAL  21 

of  the  superfluous ;  but  it  was  hard.  Mead  watched  the 
sacrifice  in  slow,  gathering  horror. 

Harkins  looked  up.  "Busy  night!"  said  he  abruptly 
but  not  unkindly.  "Anyway,  this  won't  do.  Cultivate 
the  newspaper  style.  Get  brevity,  terseness.  Cut  out 
excess  baggage.  Get  the  right  word  and  fit  it  in  right. 
You're  voluminous.  Make  it  luminous." 

Harkins  resumed  the  massacre  and  Mead,  poor  inno 
cent,  walked  disconsolately  to  his  desk  to  digest  the  bitter 
pill  that  must  invariably  be  administered  to  the  newspaper 
novice.  At  Mead's  age  the  simultaneous  discovery  that 
there  are  things  to  learn  and  things  to  unlearn  is  dis 
concerting.  He  sat  discouraged,  his  pinions  drooping, 
and  stared  gloomily  at  some  gyrating  millers  about  the 
electric  bulb  over  his  desk.  Presently  he  tried  to  catch 
them,  with  a  half-acknowledged  desire  to  pluck  off  their 
wings  in  a  little  game  of  "pass  it  on."  But  they  were 
elusive  and  evaded  him. 

Several  men  came  in  from  assignments,  and  removing 
their  coats,  for  a  hot  wave  was  grilling  the  late  days  of 
June,  set  to  work.  Smallwood  and  Lynn,  back  from  the 
convention,  left  thick  wads  of  copy  on  the  city  editor's 
desk  and  went  out  for  a  late  lunch.  More  reporters  en 
tered  hurriedly  and  fell  to.  The  dramatic  editor  entered 
with  deliberation,  as  became  the  great,  and  leisurely  set 
about  the  roasting  of  a  "first  night."  Copy  boys  scur 
ried  like  scampering  ants.  The  editors  bent  to  their  tasks, 
the  reporters'  fingers  rushed  over  the  pads  or  jingled 
the  typewriter  keys.  Everybody  hit  up  the  pace  but  the 
dramatic  critic.  He  sat,  pencil  poised  like  a  poniard,  de 
liberating  whether  he  should  slay  the  piece  and  prin 
cipals  by  slow  torture,  like  an  Indian,  or  perform  the 


22  THE  LASH 

deed  with  one  murderous  lunge.  The  proprietors  of  this 
particular  theatre  had  fallen  out  with  the  business  office 
of  the  Courier.  They  did  not  advertise  in  the  Courier 
now,  so  when  the  dramatic  critic  attended  their  house 
he  paid  for  his  seat  and  charged  it  to  expense  account. 
Naturally,  what  the  Courier  said  about  the  attractions  at 
that  house,  during  the  season  in  question,  was  not  what 
it  would  have  said  had  the  brethren  been  dwelling  to 
gether  in  amity. 

This  was  a  particularly  auspicious  occasion.  The  other 
houses  had  been  closed  for  several  weeks,  owing  to  the 
advent  of  warm  weather.  This  theatre  had  opened  to 
accommodate  a  troupe  which,  in  stage  parlance,  was  try 
ing  it  on  the  dog  before  venturing  to  launch  a  new  sum 
mer  attraction  in  the  metropolis.  After  due  reflection  the 
Courier's  dramatic  critic  savagely  gripped  his  pencil  and 
proceeded  to  use  it  as  a  bowie  in  the  interest  of  the 
suffering  dog. 

There  had  been  nothing  more  for  Mead  to  do  and  he 
sat  at  his  desk,  sucking  disconsolately  at  a  short  pipe. 
It  being  a  new  accomplishment,  he  found  difficulty  in 
keeping  it  lighted.  He  viewed  the  moths  with  malice, 
their  fluttering  wings  fanning  his  resentment.  He  was 
again  reaching  cautiously  for  them  when  a  voice  sounded 
at  his  elbow  ;  an  odd  voice,  unlike  other  voices. 

"Say,  kid,"  it  inquired,  "where 's  the  head  push  ?" 

Mead  turned,  somewhat  confused  by  the  unexpected 
interruption.  "Huh?"  he  asked. 

"Why,  the  main  squeeze,  the  first  fiddle !"  was  the  im 
patient  rejoinder.  Then,  as  an  afterthought,  "the  city 
editor." 

Mead  indicated.     "Over  there,"  he  said.     "His  name's 


AN  ARRIVAL  23 

Harkins."    He  turned  in  his  chair  to  watch  the  stranger, 
who  shuffled  over  to  Harkins'  desk. 

"Say,  Mr.  Harkins,  I  need  a  job.  And  that's  no  lie," 
was  how  he  put  it. 

Harkins  whirled  in  his  chair.  His  keen  glance  swept 
the  visitor  from  head  to  foot.  "No,  I  guess  it  isn't,"  was 
his  quiet  verdict.  "You  need  a  lot  of  things,  don't  you  ?" 
"You've  hit  it,  sir,"  grinned  the  guest,  "right  behind 
the  ear.  But  a  job  will  bring  'em  and  my  face  won't. 
It's  been  overworked  lately,  that  face,  and  I'm  restin'  it. 
I'd  hock  it,  but  it's  all  I've  got,  and  besides  I  guess  I've 
got  all  it'll  bring  already." 

"Shouldn't  wonder,"  grinned  Harkins  in  reply,  survey 
ing  with  growing  interest  the  traveller,  for  such  his  ap 
pearance  bespoke  him.  "Did  it  bring  you  here?" 

"No,  they  didn't  see  it,"  laughed  the  stranger.  "I 
came  by  freight  from  Cleveland.  It  was  a  pork  train — 
and  I'm  on  it  yet,"  with  a  sweeping  gesture  that  indi 
cated  the  ensemble  of  his  frayed  and  dusty  habiliments. 
"No  low  bridge  for  me  that  trip,"  he  continued.  "The 
brakemen  rode  on  top,  but  the  bumpers  were  good  enough 
for  me.  Ain't  so  risky." 

Harkins  quizzically  looked  him  over.  He  was  uniquely 
worth  the  trouble.  A  battered  cap,  tipped  rakishly  over 
one  ear,  topped  a  mat  of  curly  red  hair  of  the  peculiar 
bricky  hue  that  hisses  a  sibilant  Celtic  brogue  in  whilom 
wind-stirrings.  Beneath  a  broad  forehead  there  danced 
and  rioted  two  Irish  eyes,  pale  blue  pools  in  an  environ 
ing  forest  of  freckles.  Nature  had  been  generous  with 
mouths  when  he  transpired  and  had  given  him  enough  for 
two.  He  had  further  distended  it  with  much  smiling.  His 
cheeks  and  chin  were  rough  with  a  sandy  stubble;  not 


24  THE  LASH 

over-coarse,  for  he  was  young.  He  was  slender  and  of 
medium  height.  His  garments,  in  an  advanced  state  of 
senility,  exuded  cinders  at  every  pore.  As  for  his  shoes, 
the  poor  devil  was  literally  on  his  uppers. 

"I  guess,"  said  Harkins,  not  unkindly,  "I  guess,  my 
boy,  we're  full." 

"You're  lucky,"  murmured  the  stranger,  gray  dis 
couragement  in  his  face.  "Wish  I  was.  I'm  a  hollow 
tube  just  now." 

He  turned  suddenly  toward  Harkins,  despair  in  the 
eyes  grown  dark  with  trouble,  the  light  and  the  laughter 
fled. 

"My  God!"  he  gulped,  "I  haven't  eaten  a  morsel  for 
hours !  I  want  to  earn  my  livin' !  I  know  I  look  like  a 
hobo, — I  am  one,  I  suppose, — but  I'm  a  workin'  one.  I'm 
a  bum  tramp  reporter,  it's  true  enough,  you  only  have  to 
look  at  me.  But  try  me,  Mr.  Harkins,  just  give  me  a 
chance  to  make  good,  for  I  tell  you  I  can  get  the  news!" 

Harkins  involuntarily  thrust  his  hand  into  his  trousers 
pocket.  A  gesture  restrained  him. 

"Mr.  Harkins,"  said  the  visitor,  with  an  odd  dignity, 
grotesque  enough  in  his  shabby  garb,  "no  hand-outs. 
When  I  can't  earn  what  I  eat,  I'll  cut  the  game." 

Harkins  reflectively  looked  him  over,  now  with  a  little 
concern.  Pride  in  such  tatters,  that  would  not  accept 
alms,  merited  consideration.  Then,  too,  Dodds  had  just 
been  dismissed  and  someone  must  replace  him.  But  the 
stranger!  He  was  hardly  an  acceptable  candidate.  Still, 
there  was  a  frankness  in  the  mottled  face  and  twinkling 
eyes,  an  odd  note  in  the  voice  just  tinged  with  an 
Anglicized  brogue,  that  appealed  to  HarkinJ.  In  the  en- 


AN  ARRIVAL  25 

suing  moment  of  hesitancy  the  question  was  decided  for 
him. 

A  telephone  bell  sounded  at  the  city  editor's  elbow. 
He  turned  in  his  chair,  clapped  the  receiver  to  his  ear, 
listened  a  moment,  replied  briefly,  hung  up  the  receiver 
and  turned  to  the  stranger.  Mead,  the  only  one  of  the 
force  at  liberty,  had  leaned  forward  in  his  chair  as  the 
city  editor  answered  the  'phone.  Now  he  settled  back 
again  in  deep  disgust  as  Harkins  addressed  the  disreputa 
ble  visitor. 

"I'll  try  you,"  he  said  briefly.  "Know  the  town  at 
all?" 

"No,  but  I  can  find  it,"  was  the  reply. 

"There's  a  big  row  on  at  the  corner  of  Elm  and  Market 
streets,"  said  Harkins.  "Beer  and  brickbats,  tough  lo 
cality.  Rival  nests  of  low  foreigners.  You'll  have  to 
step  lively,  forms  close  early  tonight.  By  the  way,  take 
Mead  with  you  and  you  take  charge.  It's  a  job  if  you 
win  out.  If  not,  you  can  travel." 

The  stranger  grabbed  his  hat  and  vanished,  the  resent 
ful  cub  at  his  heels.  The  city  editor  glanced  at  the  big 
clock  in  the  corner  and  returned  to  his  task.  More  men 
came  in,  including  Kirk  and  Peters,  the  convention  having 
finally  adjourned.  The  manuscripts  multiplied  on  the 
readers'  desks.  On  all  sides  men  were  laboring  furi 
ously. 

Three-quarters  of  an  hour  had  elapsed  when  there  was 
an  upward  whisk  of  the  elevator  and  into  the  big  room 
hurried  the  seedy  stranger.  Mead,  no  longer  resentful, 
followed  him.  Indeed,  there  was  something  of  homage  in 
Mead's  tribute  toward  the  other,  the  involuntary  tribute 
that  any  honest  tyro  must  pay,  in  any  trade,  to  the  ex- 


26  THE  LASH 

perienced  hand  who  knows  his  business.  Mead  was  per 
spiring.  So  was  the  stranger,  who  had  evidently  kept 
himself  and  his  force  moving.  Straight  to  Mead's  desk 
strode  the  new  arrival,  tearing  off  his  shabby  coat  as  he 
went,  Mead  heeling.  The  leader  flung  himself  into 
Mead's  chair,  waving  his  hand  toward  the  vacant  desk 
next  to  it,  where  the  cub  meekly  seated  himself  and  fell  to 
writing.  He  had  been  assigned  to  his  part  of  the  tale  by 
the  vagrant  journalist  as  the  two  were  rushed  back  to  the 
office  in  a  cab  from  the  scene  of  the  trouble. 

The  stranger  drew  from  his  vest  pocket  the  stub  of  a 
soft-leaded  pencil  about  three  inches  long.  The  point  was 
inserted  for  a  thoughtful  instant  in  his  mouth,  then  was 
slapped  swiftly  upon  a  pad.  Sprawled  forward,  with 
elbows  on  the  desk,  he  wrapped  his  calves  securely  around 
the  legs  of  his  chair.  Thus  he  began  the  strewing  of 
words  upon  the  paper,  in  the  execrable  handwriting  and 
at  the  phenomenal  speed  which  have  become  traditions  of 
that  office,  where  each  has  remained  unrivaled  in  the  pa 
per's  annals.  Oblivious  of  his  surroundings,  he  bent  over 
his  desk  like  a  jockey  in  the  saddle,  eyes  glued  on  the  pad 
whose  leaves  he  was  covering  at  lightning  speed.  As  he 
proceeded  he  tossed  the  finished  sheets  carelessly  aside 
without  pausing.  Mead,  too,  under  the  benign  influence 
of  time-pressure,  took  a  long  stride  forward  in  newspaper 
requirements  by  forgetting  to  "pad"  uselessly.  Mean 
while  the  city  editor's  assistants  gathered  up  the  finished 
sheets  and  carried  them  away  to  be  hastily  edited  and  shot 
upward  to  the  compositors. 

It  was,  in  reportorial  parlance,  "hot  stuff."  A  man  had 
been  killed  in  this  battle  of  the  slums  and  the  criminal 
was  somewhere  in  hiding.  Many  men  were  injured, 


AN  ARRIVAL  27 

some  seriously.  Extra  policemen  had  been  summoned. 
The  detail  had  charged  the  mob  with  sanguinary  results, 
both  to  the  mob  and  the  bluecoats.  As  usual  some  non- 
combatants  had  suffered.  There  had  been  a  number  of 
arrests.  The  patrol  wagons  had  been  busy,  the  gongs 
of  the  hospital  ambulances  had  sounded  their  warning  as 
they  dashed  to  the  relief  of  the  injured.  It  was  the  big 
story  of  that  issue,  grim  and  formidable,  dwarfing  even 
the  stormy  convention  in  its  dramatic  features,  which  par 
took  of  the  sombre  dignity  of  the  tragic  under  the  masterly 
treatment  of  the  tattered  scribe.  It  was,  too,  a  chaotic 
story,  with  a  certain  swirl,  a  swift  rush  of  events  that  had 
piled  one  upon  the  other  with  a  cyclonic  swiftness  that 
must  have  staggered  a  neophyte  and  taxed  to  the  utmost 
the  highest  resources  of  brain  and  nerve,  together  with 
the  most  feverish  energy  of  the  veteran. 

In  a  full,  rounded  entirety,  dwarfing  the  efforts  of  the 
rival  morning  dailies, — though  some  of  them  had  several 
experienced  men  on  the  story, — the  parish  of  the  Courier 
read  of  the  memorable  riot  in  that  issue.  It  was  actually 
impressive  to  watch  the  story  pouring  from  the  point  of 
that  flying,  disreputable  pencil,  flowing  down  the  sheets 
in  a  mad  torrent,  the  scenes  brought  before  the  reader's 
eyes  with  an  irresistible  force  that  made  them  visible  in 
graphic  word  pictures,  as  if  actually  photographed.  The 
stub  rushed  on,  weaving  the  main  web  of  the  tale,  while 
Mead's  pencil  picked  up  the  loose  ends  in  the  form  of 
minor  details.  Harkins  marveled  as  he  watched  the 
story's  development.  Its  size  surpassed  his  expectations. 
Had  he  fully  understood  its  scope,  several  of  his  best  men 
would  have  been  taken  summarily  from  their  tasks  and 
sent  post-haste  to  the  scene.  Not  till  this  tattered  knight 


28  THE  LASH 

of  the  road  returned,  with  the  cub  in  tow,  had  Harkins 
known  of  the  snowball's  growth.  Yet  here  it  was  at  last, 
the  final  sheet  of  what  Harkins'  trained  journalistic  sense 
told  him  was  a  superb  handling  of  an  unusually  difficult 
assignment.  He  sent  the  last  sheets  upstairs  and  turned 
to  the  stranger  and  his  faithful  cub,  who  were  mopping 
fevered  faces. 

"Great!"  quoth  Harkins,  including  the  cub,  who  felt 
his  oats  in  consequence  and  began  filling  his  pipe  with 
due  seriousness.  "You  will  do,"  added  the  editor,  turn 
ing  to  the  new  man.  "Come  on  tomorrow  afternoon." 

The  new  man  rose  to  leave  but  hesitated,  crimsoning 
a  little.  Harkins  eyed  him  inquiringly.  The  stranger 
grinned  rather  ruefully. 

"Object  to  my  sleeping  on  this  table?"  he  asked.  "The 
rate  is  cheaper.  Besides,  I'm  hollower  even  than  I  was." 

Harkins  laughed,  but  it  was  a  sympathetic  laugh.  "I 
had  forgotten,"  said  he.  "You'll  find  a  bed  softer  than 
the  table,  I  imagine,  and  there  is  a  filling  restaurant  in  the 
next  block."  He  proceeded  to  make  an  advance  on  the 
new  man's  salary.  The  latter  thanked  him  and  was  off. 

The  boys  crowded  around,  curious  and  interested. 
"He's  no  Albert  Edward  on  wardrobe,"  commented  the 
dramatic  critic,  "but  he's  a  pippin  just  the  same.  Who  is 
he,  Harkins?" 

"Hang  it !"  replied  Harkins  dubiously,  "I  forgot  to  ask 
him.  What's  his  name,  Mead  ?" 

"Gee,  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  cub,  sucking  con 
tentedly  at  his  pipe.  "He  didn't  give  me  any  time  to 
ask." 


CHAPTER  III 

MICKY 

MICHAEL  O'BYRN,  picturesquely  Irish,  so  his 
name  appeared  on  the  payroll,  but  from  the 
cases  to  the  press  room  they  called  him  Micky. 
Mike  would  have  been  a  misfit,  for  its  tang 
suggests  a  burly,  bull-necked  son  of  Erin  with  fists  like 
hams  and  a  brogue  of  gravy-like  thickness,  a  boisterous, 
beefy,  big-hearted  broth  of  a  boy  of  blows  and  budge. 
Micky  had  the  Irish  heart,  but  he  was  short  on  fists  and 
beef  and  possessed  the  mere  ghost  of  a  brogue.  Besides, 
O'Byrn's  pseudonym  suggests  juvenility,  and  Micky's 
four  and  twenty  years,  with  their  palpable  vicissitudes, 
had  not  robbed  him  of  that  saving  grace.  Indeed,  on 
meeting  him,  light-hearted  and  laughter-loving  as  he  was 
in  youth,  your  imagination  would  experience  little  effort 
in  leaping  a  long  leap  into  futurity  to  behold  him  a  gen 
eration  on,  white-polled  and  with  the  olden  freckles  faded 
in  his  wrinkled  face ;  still  the  laugh  on  his  lips,  the  light 
of  quizzical  humor  in  his  blue  eyes.  Glad  he  would  al 
ways  be,  because  there  would  always  bubble  in  his  heart 
the  fountain  of  eternal  youth. 

The  newspaper  spirit  had  its  embodiment  in  Micky 
O'Byrn,  the  tattered  knight  of  the  road  whose  first  story 
electrified  the  city  editor  of  the  Courier.  The  spirit  shone 
out  of  the  portals  of  the  twinkling  Irish  eyes,  eternally 


30  THE  LASH 

questioning.  It  reconnoitred  the  field  from  the  bridge  of 
the  nose  that  twitched  with  eagerness  at  the  scent  of  a 
story,  as  a  pointer  snuffs  grouse.  Within  the  mouth,  that 
was  always  distended  with  an  ingratiating  smile,  dwelt  in 
amity  those  heavenly  twins,  guile  and  blarney.  They 
served  as  forceful  means  to  the  eternal  end  of  news- 
seeking,  and  they  were  backed  by  ramparts  of  cheerful 
impudence  that  flanked  the  whole  freckled  face.  The 
chin  was  round,  but  a  bump  peered  forth  that  bespoke 
tenacity.  He  ordinarily  displayed  a  guileless  expression 
that  hid  an  unfathomed  depth  of  resource.  Once  on  the 
trail,  he  could  never  be  turned  away.  When  one  route 
to  information  failed,  he  had  a  dozen  others  in  readiness, 
leading  by  devious  paths  to  the  desired  end. 

O'Byrn's  appearance,  when  he  had  selected  and  donned 
his  new  ready-made  suit,  rakish  derby  and  vociferating 
shirt,  was  decidedly  tracky.  This  transformation  occurred 
soon  after  he  joined  the  Courier's  staff.  The  suit  was 
checked  in  a  pattern  which  cried  aloud  to  heaven,  the  new 
crimson  tie  adding  its  insistent  clamor.  The  derby  was 
done  off  in  a  delicate  drab.  As  for  shoes,  he  selected 
tan  oxfords  with  red  ties.  The  ensemble,  to  use  a  word 
that  found  much  favor  with  Micky,  "jibed"  harmoniously 
with  his  thick  fell  of  lurid  hair  and  his  staring  freckles. 
In  dress,  as  in  all  else,  Micky  was  a  pronounced  radical. 

Micky  entered  upon  his  service  for  the  Courier  with  a 
vim  which  abundantly  realized  his  promise  to  "make 
good"  if  given  the  chance.  In  him  energy  was  wedded 
with  tenacity.  He  had  an  inexhaustible  fund  of  subtle 
resource,  an  ingratiating  impudence.  Altogether,  he  was 
well  adapted  to  his  strenuous  trade,  the  trade  that  sifts 
out  so  much  of  chaff  and  leaves  so  little  wheat — and 


MICKY  31 

finally  withers  the  wheat  till  it  follows  the  chaff.  Micky 
had  a  positive  genius  for  coping  with  obstacles.  If  he 
could  not  "sidestep"  them  he  climbed  over,  crawled  under 
or  wriggled  through  them.  Harkins  steered  him  up 
against  nearly  everything  in  those  first  few  days  and  he 
never  fell  down.  Harkins  began  to  grow  self-complacent 
regarding  his  discernment.  He  had  discovered  this  pearl, 
or  to  put  it  more  literally,  this  speckled  ruby  of  journal 
ism.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  ruby  had  discovered  him 
self,  but  Harkins  had  helped.  He  was  entitled  to  con 
gratulate  himself,  for  the  new  arrival  was  amply  demon 
strating  his  services  to  be  valuable. 

Micky  had  been  with  the  Courier  a  fortnight.  The  voice 
of  his  new  apparel  had  been  heard  on  the  land  and  also 
on  the  waters.  For  only  the  previous  day  he  had  boarded 
a  tug  steaming  out  to  the  quarantine  station,  casually 
absorbed  a  mine  of  information  without  the  suicidal  flash 
ing  of  a  notebook  and  scooped  the  field  with  a  harrowing 
chapter  of  abuses  by  those  in  power.  His  prestige  was 
increased.  A  little  bird  slyly  twittered  in  his  ear  that  they 
had  started  him  low  in  the  wage  line.  He  would  better 
strike  for  more  while  the  iron  was  hot,  for  it  was  like  to 
cool  quickly  in  this  uncertain  calling. 

He  pondered  over  the  matter,  his  feet  reposing  on  his 
desk,  a  red-eyed  cigar  stub  in  the  corner  of  his  mouth. 
It  was  midnight.  He  had  handed  in  a  warm  political 
column,  happened  upon  by  accident  that  evening.  He 
was  always  stumbling  upon  such  accidents,  that  spelled 
spice  for  the  reader  in  the  morning. 

Micky  ceased  ruminating,  with  a  mental  vow  to  strike 
'em  next  day.  He  rose,  yawned,  stretched  himself  and 
strolled  over  to  the  sporting  editor's  desk.  O'Byrn  sank 


32  THE  LASH 

into  an  adjoining  chair  as  his  neighbor  administered  the 
finishing  touches  to  an  intercollegiate  field  meet  of  that 
afternoon. 

"How  're  ye,  Fatty?"  inquired  Micky  amiably,  prod 
ding  his  co-laborer  in  the  ample  excuse  for  his  nick 
name. 

"Fine  'nd  dandy,  Irish,"  replied  the  rotund  Stearns 
rather  absently,  as  he  pensively  rubbed  his  prodded  abdo 
men.  "Say,  Irish,"  he  burst  out  in  an  odd  breathless 
way — Fatty's  fits  were  a  joke  in  the  office  and  startling 
to  newcomers — "good  hammer  throw,  that.  Fell  short 
two  feet,  though."  He  shoved  a  written  sheet  over  to 
Micky. 

Micky  had  jumped  in  his  chair  at  the  onslaught,  spill 
ing  cigar  ashes  over  his  noisy  shirt  bosom.  "Short  of 
what?"  he  demanded  with  sarcasm,  blowing  the  ashes  into 
Stearns'  rubicund  face.  "Fatty,  have  you  got  'em  again?" 

"Got  nothin',"  retorted  Fatty,  rubbing  an  ashy  eye. 
"They'll  never  beat  it,  never,"  he  murmured,  more  to  him 
self  than  to  Micky,  with  a  slow  shake  of  his  fat  head. 
"Not  on  your  pajamas !  They  can't  touch  him." 

"Cut  it  out,  Fatty,"  exhorted  Micky  with  concern. 
"Quit  the  pill  cookin'  stunt  or  it  '11  land  you  in  the  dip- 
house  for  sure.  Why,  you  spit  when  you  talk  now ! 
Of  whom  are  you  dreaming?" 

Fatty  came  back  to  earth.  "That's  so,  you  weren't  here 
then,"  he  vouchsafed  pityingly. 

"When  ?"  retorted  Micky  pugnaciously.  "When  wasn't 
I  here  ?" 

"Three  years  ago,"  replied  Stearns,  the  tremolo  of  a 
tender  memory  throbbing  in  his  tone. 


MICKY  33 

"And  if  I  wasn't  here,"  demanded  Micky,  unmollified, 
"who  was,  you  sofa  pillow?" 

The  sofa  pillow,  like  most  such,  was  good  natured.  He 
grinned  forgivingly  at  the  freckled  features  opposite  him. 

"Dick  Glenwood  was !"  he  answered  with  firm  finality. 
"Yes  'r !  And  when  he  got  through  there  was  nothin' 
else.  The  rest  of  'em  were  hangin'  on  the  clothes  line. 
It  was  three  years  ago,  Speckles,  and  I  was  helpin'  do 
the  intercollegiate  meet  for  the  News.  Cubbin'  it  then, 
you  know.  All  the  colleges,  Hale,  Pittston  and  the  rest 
were  there.  I  knew  Dick ;  best  man  Hale  ever  had,  bar 
none.  Knew  what  was  comin'.  Came  from  the  same 
town  as  I  did.  Brought  up  together ;  he's  licked  me  more 
than  once/'  with  pardonable  pride.  "Came  out  just  as  I 
expected  and  he  scooped  everything.  It  was  his  last  ap 
pearance,  graduation  year,  big  rep.  Had  to  make  good 
and  he  did,  won  everything  in  sight.  That  is,  every 
thing  he  went  into,  and  he  was  in  everything  worth  while. 
Made  some  records  that  stand  today.  And  that  hammer 
throw !  Say,"  gurgled  Fatty,  his  face  apoplectic,  "that 
man  Myers  came  the  closest  to  it  today  of  any  meet  since 
then,  and  he's  got  two  feet  comin'  to  touch  it !" 

"Dick  Glenwood,"  mused  Dicky.  "I've  heard  the  name 
around  the  office." 

"And  why  not?"  exploded  Stearns.  His  little  eyes, 
lurking  beneath  folds  of  fat,  peeled  like  round  agate 
marbles.  "Why,  man,  don't  you  know?" 

"Know  what?"  snapped  O'Byrn,  reaching  for  a  con 
venient  paper-weight.  "Now,  Fatty !"  poising  the  weapon. 

"Know  he  works  here,  of  course,"  replied  Stearns, 
viewing  the  weight  apprehensively.  "Say,  Irish,  don't 
talk  to  me!  You'd  better  come  out  of  it  yourself." 


34  THE  LASH 

"Works  here?"  repeated  Micky,  putting  down  the 
weight.  "I  haven't  seen  him." 

"On  his  vacation,"  explained  Fatty.  "Expect  him  back 
tomorrow.  My  last  whack  at  this  stunt." 

"So  he  does  sports,"  observed  Micky,  taking  a  fresh 
cigar  from  Stearns'  vest  pocket.  "I  thought  you  did  'em 
right  along." 

"Me?"  exploded  Fatty,  in  incredulous  oblivion  of 
slaughtered  grammar.  His  fat  face  expressed  ludicrous 
amaze  at  the  impression.  "Why,  man,  he's  the  best  sport 
ing  writer  in  town  or  anywhere  else !  I'm  just  supplyin'. 
Ordinarily  I  do  odds  and  ends.  I've  done  everything  but 
time.  Sometimes,  when  we're  specially  busy,  I  act  as  his 
assistant.  He  got  me  my  job  here  when  the  News  fired 
me." 

Fatty  was  nothing  if  not  ingenuous.  Micky  did  not 
try  to  hide  his  grin,  for  it  would  make  no  difference  with 
Fatty. 

"Why,  yes,  I've  read  of  that  fellow,"  assented  Micky, 
transferring  a  generous  portion  of  the  contents  of  Stearns' 
match  box  to  his  own  pocket.  "So  he  went  into  this  rot 
ten  business,  did  he?" 

"Why,  yes,  he's  stuck  on  it,"  explained  Fatty.  "You 
see  he's  got  money." 

"Got  money!"  echoed  Micky  amazedly.  "Gee  whiz! 
then  why — ?  Excuse  me,  Fatty,  I'm  asleep  at  the  switch 
for  fair." 

"I  don't  know,"  floundered  Fatty  helplessly,  "but  any 
way,  his  father's  got  money.  But  Dick  likes  this  business 
just  the  same.  Been  at  it  since  he  left  college." 

"Then  it  is  because  he's  got  money,  or  his  father  has," 
agreed  Micky.  "I  couldn't  see  it  before,  but  you  have 


MICKY  35 

made  it  very  clear,  Fatty.  It's  because  he's  got  money  or 
his  father  has.  How  stupid  of  me  to  be  wingin'  on  that 
proposition !  But  if  he  didn't  have  money,  or  his  father 
didn't,  and  he  was  doing  this  for  a  living  like  the  rest 
of  us  instead  of  for  the  fun  of  it,  he'd  say  to  the  devil  with 
it,  like  the  rest  of  us — and  probably  keep  right  at  it, 
like  the  rest  of  us."  In  which  words  Micky  gave  utter 
ance  to  a  philosophic,  universal  truth. 

The  voice  of  the  city  editor  broke  in  upon  the  con 
ference.  "Say,  Stearns,"  it  called,  "where's  that  meet?" 

"Most  done,  Mr.  Harkins,"  responded  Fatty  in  a  panic, 
diving  into  his  copy  like  a  greased  swimmer  off  the  side 
of  a  yacht. 

"O'Byrn,"  called  Harkins.  "Here's  word  of  a  row 
down  at  Goldberg's  saloon  on  Ash  street,  pretty  serious. 
Thuggery.  Slide  down  and  get  it  quietly.  You  know 
they  don't  like  the  looks  of  notebooks  around  there,"  with 
a  grim  laugh. 

So  Micky,  whose  memory  was  his  notebook  and  a  won 
derfully  accurate  one  when  caution  and  cunning  were  de 
manded,  hurried  to  the  elevator. 


CHAPTER  IV 

FISTS  AND  THE  MAN 

BETWEEN  Goldberg's  and  the  polite  in  in 
dulgence  there  was  a  great  gulf  fixed.  From 
the  north  side,  with  its  glittering  palaces  of 
Bacchus  dispensing  varied  decoctions  served  by 
irreproachable  chemists,  you  travelled  south  through 
a  scattered  series  of  lessening  liquid  glories.  Finally 
you  came  to  Goldberg's,  where  they  took  it  straight 
in  draughts  of  cheap,  blistering  stuff  which  maddened 
and  incited  to  crime.  Goldberg's  was  the  dive  of 
last  resort  for  the  submerged  tenth.  Its  maw  gaped 
hungrily,  gorging  upon  the  dregs  it  gathered  in.  Finally, 
when  the  victims  were  stripped  of  their  miserable  re 
sources,  they  were  spewed  forth,  with  brains  inflamed 
with  the  liquid  damnation  purveyed  there.  Ripe  for  any 
crime,  they  were  foul  fruit  for  the  gaoler  and  a  menace 
to  men. 

Goldberg's  existed  by  grace  of  the  modern  god  of 
money.  Goldberg  was  a  tool  of  the  autocratic  Shaugh- 
nessy,  who  contrived  to  head  and  manage  a  corrupt  city 
government.  ~  Goldberg  captained  his  ward,  which  was 
one  of  Shaughnessy's  gilt-edged  assets.  The  ward  had 
become  Shaughnessy's  by  right  of  Goldberg's  conquest. 
It  was  a  ward  of  thugs  and  human  jugs  and  brutal,  ele 
mentary  mugs;  all  American  sovereigns,  equalized  with 


FISTS  AND  THE  MAN  37 

decency  under  the  deathless  document  of  American  in 
dependence.  Born  sovereigns,  or  having  taken  out  pa 
pers,  the  adult  males  in  this  ward  had  lined  up  one  day, 
now  far  in  the  past.  One  hand  of  each  proudly  clutched 
a  ballot,  the  badge  of  his  sovereignty.  The  other  hand 
was  greedily  extended  for  the  accompanying  cash.  Into 
the  grimy  palms  had  dropped  more  cash  from  Shaugh- 
nessy  via  Goldberg,  than  could  be  afforded  by  any  of 
their  rivals.  So  the  ballots  poured  into  the  boxes  for 
Goldberg,  whose  bull-faced  lieutenants  flanked  the  line 
to  see  that  the  bargain  was  carried  out.  Goldberg  was 
the  choice  of  his  people  for  alderman.  He  was  theirs, 
and  through  his  rude  genius,  under  Shaughnessy,  it 
transpired  that  they  were  his  forever. 

He  did  not  sit  with  the  council  now.  He  had  long  since 
relinquished  even  the  higher  posts  of  confidence  with 
which  Shaughnessy  had  honored  him  after  his  alder- 
manic  career.  Truth  to  tell,  Goldberg  had  become  suffi 
ciently  notorious  to  convince  Shaughnessy  that  it  would 
be  politic  to  remove  him  from  under  the  direct  glare  of 
the  public  eye.  He  could  perform  better  service  from 
the  wings.  So  Goldberg  had  apparently  retired  from 
all  connection  with  the  politics  of  the  city  and  even  his 
own  ward,  though  Shaughnessy  and  the  retired  gentle 
man  could  have  told  better.  They  now  picked  their  pup 
pets  to  run,  invariably  routing  the  forces  of  law  and  or 
der  on  election  day  with  the  tremendous  majorities  for 
license  and  disorder  rolled  up  in  their  several  wards. 
There  was  subsequent  increment,  which  someone  got, 
gathered  in  shady  subways  of  a  peculiar  municipal  gov 
ernment  ;  presenting  the  situation  which  makes  the  in 
different  voter  a  byword  and  reproach  in  many  cities  of 


38  THE  LASH 

this  broad  and  extremely  hospitable  land.  On  these 
triumphal  election  nights,  too,  joy  overflowed  at  Gold 
berg's  place, — albeit  he  was  "no  longer  interested  in 
politics," — and  fell  like  strong  dew  upon  the  unjust. 
There  were  free  draughts  of  the  cheap  in  beverages  flow 
ing  fast  into  the  faces  of  the  unlaved,  unshaved  crew. 
The  godless  exulted  and  Goldberg  continued  to  hold  them 
for  Shaughnessy  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand. 

As  Micky  was  whirled  southward,  in  an  open  trolley 
car,  he  reflected  upon  his  dubious  assignment.  How 
should  he  conduct  his  campaign?  It  will  be  readily 
gathered  that  newspaper  men  were  not  especially  popular 
at  Goldberg's.  Most  of  the  representative  city  sheets, 
irrespective  of  political  leanings,  had  for  years  been  flay 
ing  the  fifth  ward  king,  seeking  to  uncrown  him.  Thus 
far  it  had  been  without  avail.  Not  yet  had  the  decent 
element  been  able  to  throw  off  the  thrall.  This  was  be 
cause  they  had  been  indulging  in  that  practice  which  so 
universally  blocks  the  wheels  of  progress  in  most  lines, 
the  pastime  of  quarreling  among  themselves  in  regard 
to  the  most  desirable  means  to  the  end.  So  Shaughnessy 
and  Goldberg,  their  colleagues  and  all  they  represented 
and  misrepresented,  were  still  in  control,  and  buying 
larger  burglar-proof  safes.  The  newspapers  had  kept  the 
quarreling  factions  of  the  perennially  defeated  party  in 
formed  as  to  this  growing  prosperity,  as  well  as  they  were 
able  to  ascertain  regarding  it.  Naturally  the  gang's  lead 
ers  and  their  mates  resented  this,  for  it  favored  the 
chances  of  the  opposing  party's  factions  finally  getting 
together  and  putting  the  whole  evil  crew  out  of  com 
mission.  When  a  man  has  begun  to  make  easy  money, 


FISTS  AND  THE  MAN  39 

he  mourns  to  break  off  the  habit ;  nor  does  he  view 
with  pleasure  attempts  to  compel  him  to  do  so. 

Micky  hoped  he  could  get  his  story  quietly,  for  dis 
covery  of  his  errand  in  that  unfriendly  atmosphere  would 
probably  mean  failure  and  perhaps  a  broken  head.  How 
ever,  he  hardly  thought  he  would  encounter  anyone  he 
knew  there,  so  would  trust  to  luck. 

Alighting  from  the  car  at  the  end  of  South  Avenue, 
he  made  his  way  through  a  tangle  of  dark,  rank  thorough 
fares,  which  grew  dingier  and  more  disreputable  as  he 
continued,  till  he  came  to  the  street,  little  more  than  an 
alley,  where  Goldberg's  flourished  like  a  green  bay  tree, 
— late  in  season,  for  the  structure  needed  painting.  Low 
and  dingy,  squat  and  ugly,  it  crouched  between  a  couple 
of  cheap  brick  tenements  like  a  stolid,  sullen  beast  of 
prey ;  its  few  small  windows  alight  with  a  dull  red  glow, 
like  vengeful  eyes.  From  within  there  came  the  dis 
cordant  brawling  of  a  cracked  phonograph.  A  couple  of 
red-eyed  human  derelicts,  stupid  with  drink,  lounged 
against  the  portal  as  Micky  entered. 

It  was  quiet  enough  now.  There  were  no  signs  of  a 
disturbance.  Micky  was  chagrined.  He  had  hoped  to 
arrive  before  the  trouble,  whatever  it  had  been,  was 
over ;  if  not  in  the  thick  of  it,  at  least  before  the  par 
ticipants  had  dispersed.  He  could  then  follow  some  of 
the  interested  parties  and  secure  the  details,  for  he  knew 
his  game  too  well  to  have  meditated  seriously  the  idea 
of  making  any  pointed  inquiries  in  the  dive  itself.  That 
would  mean  an  instant  awakening  on  the  part  of  the 
questioned  to  the  fact  that  a  newspaper  man  was  present. 
If  he  persisted,  there  might  ensue  rough  treatment  and  a 
swift  and  painful  exodus.  However,  he  found  it  as  quiet 


40  THE  LASH 

as  the  grave.  It  was  apt  to  be  so  at  Goldberg's  after 
a  rumpus.  Micky  shrewdly  guessed  that  the  end  of  the 
trouble  had  been  the  signal  for  a  general  discretionary 
scattering.  There  were  present  only  the  bartender  and 
two  men  who  stood  against  the  bar,  their  backs  to  him. 
Micky  noticed  with  relief  that  Goldberg  was  not  present. 
It  was  as  well,  for  Micky  and  he  had  met. 

Micky  walked  slowly  to  the  end  of  the  big  low-ceilinged 
room  and  seated  himself  at  a  small  beer-splashed  table. 
He  chafed  inwardly.  What  had  happened?  Had  the 
police  arrived  and  gone,  if  indeed  they  knew  anything 
about  it  ?  Or,  worse  luck,  had  some  man  from  a  rival  pa 
per  anticipated  him? 

These  disturbing  reflections  came  simultaneously  with 
O'Byrn's  seating  himself.  As  he  did  so,  a  step  sounded 
behind  him  and  a  form  sank  into  a  chair  at  his  left,  facing 
his  own  table. 

Micky's  heart  bounded.  Luck  was  with  him  after  all. 
"How  're  ye,  Slade?"  he  sang  out,  with  cordiality  tem 
pered  with  a  sly  wink.  "I  just  got  in  from  the  Speedway 
track.  Just  enough  left  to  save  hitting  the  ties  home." 
Micky's  horsy  clothes  bore  out  the  bluff. 

Nick  Slade  was  no  fool.  He  caught  the  situation  at  a 
glance.  Micky  had  rendered  him  a  service  only  a  week 
before,  the  little  Irishman's  blarney  rescuing  him  from 
a  prospective  entanglement  with  the  talons  of  a  police 
man.  Slade  was  a  shred  of  a  fellow,  with  a  lean  dark 
face  and  black  eyes  that  were  as  impersonal  as  a  China 
man's,  as  they  gazed  into  Micky's  warning  blue  ones. 

"To  the  bad,  eh?"  he  rejoined,  with  a  dry  grin  in 
the  direction  of  the  men  at  the  other  end  of  the  room, 
whom  he  was  facing  while  Micky's  back  was  toward 


FISTS  AND  THE  MAN  41 

them.  "If  you'd  cut  out  layin'  your  own  coin,  and  stick- 
to  business  in  tippin'  off  the  guys  who  can  afford  to  lose 
it,  you'd  be  better  off.  I  told  you  not  to  go  up  against 
that  bum  line  of  selling-platers." 

"Well,  I've  got  enough  left  to  have  a  drink  on  it 
anyway,"  replied  Micky,  with  reckless  prodigality,  rap 
ping  on  the  table  for  the  bartender.  "Lap  up  with  me. 
Say  what." 

"Spivins  water,"  answered  Slade,  his  synonym  for 
whisky.  Micky  ordered  ale,  for  ordinarily  he  avoided 
the  little  red  devil.  When  he  did  not,  the  little  red  devil 
played  ducks  and  drakes  with  him  and  his  prospects. 

When  the  bartender  had  set  down  the  glasses  and 
gone,  Micky  said  quietly,  "Slade,  you  know  why  I'm  here. 
Do  you  know  that  story  ?" 

"Sure,"  said  Slade,  "but  you  don't  want  to  ask  for  it 
here." 

"I  know  it,"  acquiesced  Micky,  producing  cigars. 
"That's  the  reason  I  just  rang  the  bluff  of  a  cheap  sport. 
I  know  I'm  one  anyway,  but  I  don't  want  'em  to  tumble 
to  the  fact  that  I  write  when  I'm  not  sportin'." 

"Sure  not,"  agreed  Slade.  "If  they  did,  Irish,  someone 
would  get  hurt,  and  it  wouldn't  be  the  sidewalk.  Mulli 
gan,  the  bartender,  is  soitinly  a  baby  bouncer." 

"Well  now,  Nick,"  said  Micky,  "I  want  that  story, 
and  I  want  it  right.  It's  gettin'  early.  Now  you  do 
a  heart-to-heart  Uncle  Tom  and  Little  Eva  talk  with  me 
about  the  races,  and  by  and  by  I'll  go  away.  You're 
not  in  it,  you  know ;  I  flash  no  paper  and  mum's  the 
word.  I  just  keep  it  in  my  nut,  understand?  Now  spill 
it  out." 

So  Nick  spilled  it  out  and  Micky  absorbed  his  facts, 


42  THE  LASH 

sans  comment ;  mentally  registering  the  full  details  of 
a  story  that  proved  interesting  the  next  day,  well  be 
sprinkled  with  gore  and  full  of  the  zest  which  made  life 
worth  living  in  the  realm  that  was  Goldberg's.  Micky 
gave  a  subdued  grunt  of  satisfaction  as  it  was  finished, 
his  restored  complacency  being  heightened  by  Nick's  as 
surance  that  so  far  he  was  the  sole  reporter  on  the  scene. 
Harkins'  tip  must  have  been  a  private  one.  Micky  gloated 
over  the  prospective  beat. 

He  had  it  all  now,  and  time  was  forging  pressward. 
He  shoved  what  cigars  he  had  with  him  toward  Nick, 
with  an  eloquent  look  of  gratitude,  and  rose,  moving 
nonchalantly  toward  the  door,  Slade  following. 

All  had  been  well,  but  one  of  the  imbibing  pair  front 
ing  the  bar  chanced  to  turn,  eyeing  Micky  squarely.  He 
was  a  gent  of  agility.  With  a  couple  of  bounds  he  sen 
tineled  the  doorway,  barring  the  intended  exodus.  Wrath 
ful  fire  gleamed  in  his  bleared  eyes ;  the  stubble  of  his 
crimsoned  face  seemed  not  unlike  the  rising  hackles  of  an 
enraged  dog. 

"Speedway  track,  eh?"  he  roared.  "Busted  sport, 
eh?  You  little  baboon,  youse  will  be  busted  afore  youse 
gets  out  o'  here,  an'  dat  ain't  no  lie  neither!  Mulligan, 
d'ye  know  who  dis  is?" 

"Naw !"  replied  Mulligan,  the  laconic,  thrusting  out  an 
angled  chin  and  screwing  his  vicious  little  eyes  into  gim 
let  points.  "Who  t'  'ell?" 

"He's  dat  new  Irish  Courier  pup !"  bellowed  the  ob 
stacle,  "de  speckled  sneak  wot  done  my  game  for  me  last 
week.  I  told  youse  about  it." 

"Youse  did,  Cullinan,"  admitted  the  bartender  and  de 
liberately  rolled  up  his  shirt  sleeves.  Cullinan's  com- 


FISTS  AND  THE  MAN  43 

panion,  too,  had  slouched  up  and  scowlingly  flanked  his 
irate  pard  at  guard.  Mulligan  thoughtfully  emerged  from 
behind  the  bar.  In  the  sinister  situation,  the  forcible 
tribute  that  Cullinan  had  just  paid  O'Byrn  upon  his  pro 
fessional  ability  failed  wholly  to  arouse  a  gentle  glow  of 
satisfaction  in  Micky's  disturbed  breast.  The  recogni 
tion  between  him  and  Cullinan,  general  blackleg,  had  been 
mutual. 

There  was  an  instant's  silence.  Mulligan  broke  it  with 
salvos  of  scientific  and  finished  profanity. 

"Yer  here  for  a  story,"  he  concluded,  "a  hot  one.  An' 
ye've  got  it.  But  how  de  'ell — "  with  puzzled  head 
scratchings.  His  venomous  little  eyes  fell  upon  the  in 
stinctively  shrinking  Slade.  They  flamed  luridly. 

"Youse  little  yellow  leper!"  he  growled.  "It's  youse 
dat  coughed  it  up !"  He  lunged  at  Slade. 

Now  between  the  two  guards  at  the  open  door  there 
was  a  thin  gap  to  liberty.  Thin  it  was,  but  enough  for 
Slade,  who  had  worldly  matters  yet  to  put  in  order.  He 
ducked  Mulligan's  hungry  hands,  and  with  a  swift  spring 
of  a  body  whose  attenuated  bulk  was  a  decided  advantage 
in  this  time  of  stress,  he  shot  like  a  meteor  between  the 
disconcerted  guards  and  landed  in  a  heap  upon  the  side 
walk  outside.  Bounding  to  his  feet  like  a  rubber  ball, 
he  darted  up  the  alley.  The  furious  guards,  overturned 
by  the  sudden  onslaught,  scrambled  up. 

"Follow  him,  Dinneen!"  shouted  Mulligan,  and  Cul- 
linan's  partner  obeyed,  the  room  echoing  with  his  curses 
as  he  rushed  out. 

As  Slade  achieved  his  liberty,  Micky  had  tried  to  fol 
low  suit.  He  had  nearly  reached  the  door  when  the 
brawny  hand  of  Mulligan  shot  out  and  connected  with 


44  THE  LASH 

his  collar.  There  was  a  backward  jerk  and  the  choking 
journalist  landed  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  falling  over 
a  table  amid  jangling  beer  glasses.  Picking  himself 
up  rather  dazedly  he  grinned  amiably  into  the  two  scowl 
ing  faces  opposite  him.  His  left  hand  was  cut  slightly 
by  a  broken  glass.  He  drew  out  his  handkerchief, 
stanching  the  flow  of  blood. 

"Do  you  mugs  provide  free  ambulance  service  for 
your  customers,"  he  inquired  airily,  "or  is  that  extra  ?" 

"Shut  your  face !"  remarked  Mulligan  savagely.  "Now 
ye've  got  that  story  all  right,  which  ain't  none  of  yer 
business  nor  yer  cursed  paper's,  neither.  Youse  done 
up  a  pal  o'  mine  here  good  and  proper  last  week  'nd 
we  bote  otter  lick  de  stuffin'  outer  you.  But  I  bets  as 
you  didn't  come  here  of  yer  own  accord,  an'  I  tells  ye 
wot  we'll  do.  You  tell  de  man  wot  sent  yer  dat  dere 
wasn't  nuttin'  doin',  an'  you  couldn't  cop  nuttin',  an' 
we  lets  you  go.  Eider  dat  or — "  and  his  swollen  fist 
fanned  the  acrid  air  an  inch  from  Micky's  nose. 

Micky's  keen  Irish  eyes  weighed  the  ruffianly  odds. 
A  weaker  spirit  would  have  temporized  or  lied.  How 
ever,  Micky  was  a  man.  His  answer  left  nothing  to  be 
arbitrated.  It  was  a  mere  suggestion,  but  it  held  final 
ity. 

"You  go  to  hell !"  he  said.  The  next  instant  his  eyes, 
strangely  distended,  saw  curious  vivid,  whirling  flashes 
of  crimson  and  orange  and  violet.  His  tongue,  curled 
fantastically,  writhed  outward  like  an  ant  eater's.  His 
slender  hands  tore  futilely  at  brutal,  strangling  fists 
clenched  upon  his  throat.  He  was  simultaneously  sen 
sible  of  dull  thudding  blows  about  the  lower  part  of  his 
body,  judging  hazily  but  quite  correctly  that  Cullinan 


FISTS  AND  THE  MAN  45 

was  kicking  him.  For  a  moment  so,  while  the  vivid 
colors  faded  and  resolved  themselves  gradually  into  jetty 
black,  and  consciousness  waned.  Then  he  heard  dimly 
a  rush  of  feet,  felt  a  swift  relief  as  the  stifling  hands  were 
torn  from  his  throat.  Gasping,  he  rolled  weakly  to  one 
side  while  the  shadows  slowly  lifted  from  his  protrud 
ing  eyes.  They  saw  what  brought  Micky  staggering  to 
his  feet  with  trembling  interest. 

For  the  tables  were  turned,  not  by  a  relieving  cordon 
of  policemen,  but  by  one  man  with  vengeance  in  his 
hands.  A  splendid  young  figure,  over  six  feet  tall,  he 
was  in  the  center  of  the  room,  dealing  it.  A  swift  vision 
of  yellow  tousled  hair,  gleaming  blue  eyes  and  grim 
square  jaw,  flashed  before  Micky's  bewildered  sight.  A 
distinct  appreciation  welled  within  him  of  the  power  be 
hind  a  blow  which  at  that  instant  knocked  Mr.  Cullinan 
into  a  corner,  where  he  lay  and  shuddered.  The  new 
comer  now  faced  Mr.  Mulligan,  who,  with  malice  bur 
rowing  in  his  gimlet  eyes,  at  once  fell  into  approved  po 
sition.  The  rescuer  laughed  a  great  mellow,  resounding 
laugh  full  into  Mr.  Mulligan's  unlovely  face.  Then, 
dropping  suddenly,  he  charged  into  the  bartender  in 
bruising  gridiron  style,  a  brawny  shoulder  heaving  that 
gentleman  in  a  disorganized  heap  near  his  annihilated 
partner. 

The  athlete  straightened  with  another  booming  laugh. 
"Come  on,  kid,"  he  shouted,  "it'll  be  warm  here  in  a 
minute."  He  dragged  the  still  dazed  Micky  out  of  the 
door.  Up  to  the  corner  they  ran  to  a  cab  in  waiting. 
They  sprang  in.  "Courier  office!"  directed  the  stranger, 
then  drew  out  his  watch. 

"You'll  have  plenty  of  time  for  your  story,"  he  ob- 


46  THE  LASH 

served.  "I  know  Goldberg's,  so  when  I  happened  around 
the  office  just  now  and  Fatty  told  me,  among  other  things, 
what  was  up,  I  didn't  know  as  it  would  do  any  harm  to 
drive  over,  seeing  I'd  nothing  else  to  do.  Makes  a  fel 
low  feel  restless  to  get  out  of  the  grind  for  a  couple  of 
weeks.  You  get  rusty  for  exercise."  He  laughed  again. 

Micky  remembered  his  talk  with  Stearns.  "You  must 
be — "  he  ventured. 

"Dick  Glemvood,"  returned  the  other,  as  they  shook 
hands.  "And  you,  I  think  I  know  you.  Fatty  told 
me,  all  in  three  minutes.  You  know  he  generally  does." 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  IRONWORKERS'  BALL — AND  MAISIE 

44Ti  yOU  fool!"  remarked  former  Alderman  Gold- 
^L/  berg  to  his  man,  Mulligan,  when  he  learned 
a  little  later  that  night  of  the  spirited  occur 
rence  in  his  bar  room.  "You  fool!  Don't 
you  know  no  better  than  to  put  it  onto  a  newspaper  guy  ? 
Don't  you  know  he  can  make  all  kinds  of  trouble  for 
us  if  he  wants  to?  Don't  you  know  nothin'?  Just  be 
cause  he  did  up  a  pal  of  yours, — and  God  knows  he  had 
it  comin'  to  him ! — is  that  any  reason  you've  got  to  pitch 
into  the  bloke  and  set  a  lot  of  bees  stingin'  us?  You're 
a  bright  one,  ain't  you?  You're  a  rotten  stiff!"  ful 
minated  Goldberg,  while  his  assistant  scowled  and  said 
nothing.  "I'll  tell  you  one  thing,"  concluded  Goldberg, 
"if  they  make  any  trouble  for  me  out  of  your  fool  break, 
you  get  the  run,  see?" 

But  no  trouble  ensued  and  Mulligan  remained.  Micky, 
having  come  out  ahead,  laughed  at  his  rough  treatment 
as  a  part  of  a  good  joke,  being  no  whiner.  There  was 
no  disposition  at  the  Courier  office  to  cause  Goldberg 
any  more  trouble  than  it  was  hoped  was  due  him  after 
the  next  election,  along  with  his  mates.  All  the  Courier's 
hopes  were  centered  on  that  pleasing  goal. 

Micky's  night  off,  a  little  later  in  the  week,  fell  un 
eventfully,  and  it  was  with  distinct  boredom  that  he 


48  THE  LASH 

tried  to  kill  time.  He  was  invariably  uneasy  at  these  brief 
intervals  of  respite  from  the  grind,  and  it  might  be 
said  that  he  enjoyed  himself  in  discontent.  It  was  with 
a  generally  ennuied  air  that  he  sauntered  at  midnight 
into  a  night  lunch  room  much  frequented  by  the  Courier 
staff  and  encountered  Dick  there,  whom  he  greeted  with 
enthusiasm.  It  happened  that  Dick  was  through  espe 
cially  early  that  evening. 

An  odd  friendship  had  arisen  between  these  two,  so 
dissimilar  and  yet  so  like  in  the  welding  quality  of  good 
fellowship  and  thorough  bohemianism.  It  was  this  rest 
less  spirit,  the  arch-enemy  of  commercial  routine,  that 
had  drawn  Dick  into  journalism  after  leaving  college. 
The  step  was  a  disappointment  to  his  father,  who  had 
hoped  that  Dick  would  elect  to  enter  the  parent's  office 
and  learn  the  business  from  the  ground  up.  He  did  not 
oppose  Dick's  inclinations,  however,  thinking  that  a  little 
experience  would  weary  him  of  his  idea.  Thus  far,  how 
ever,  there  seemed  little  likelihood  that  Dick  would  leave 
the  fascinating  grind  for  the  more  substantial  though 
more  prosaic  office  desk.  He  had  taken  naturally  to 
journalism,  was  a  ready  and  pleasing  writer,  and  he 
liked  it. 

It  was  the  same  restless  spirit,  too,  linked  with  an  in 
born,  luring  love  of  roving  and  shift  of  scene,  that  fired 
O'Byrn.  A  happy  vagabond,  his  eyes  were  filled  ever 
with  the  charm  of  new  scenes  that  all  too  soon  grew  old. 
Always  were  fair  mirages  to  glow  on  his  horizon,  bring 
ing  him  hurrying  on — to  find  them  faded.  Dream-houses, 
built  on  barren  sands,  dissolving  in  mists  of  tears  as  the 
years  spell  the  bitter,  brutal  thing  that  we  call  wisdom! 
Always  for  him,  strange  little  Irishman,  the  luring  vvhis- 


THE  IRONWORKERS'  BALL  49 

per  from  afar  and  the  mad  dash  thither,  to  find  as  be 
fore  only  chill  mists  and  brooding  shadows;  and  so  on, 
over  the  wastes,  to  silence  and  the  end. 

"What  have  you  done  with  yourself?"  inquired  Dick, 
as  the  two  settled  themselves  comfortably  before  their 
sandwiches  and  coffee.  "Find  anything  worth  while?" 

"Oh,  early  in  the  evenin'  I  dropped  into  Ryan's  roof 
garden,"  replied  Micky.  "The  first  stunt  wasn't  so  bad ; 
then  .they  rang  in  one  of  those  cockney  carolers  from 
dear  ol'  Lunnon.  He  got  off  a  yowl  about — 

"  'Wipe  no  more,  my  lidy, 
Oh,  wipe  no  more  to  die — ' 

and  I  got  out.  Suggested  a  scullery  strike  and  busi 
ness,  and  it  was  my  night  off. 

"Blew  along  and  met  a  bunch  of  the  boys  at  the  Gold 
Coin.  They  had  started  in  early  and  were  left-handed 
in  both  feet  and  hangin'  onto  the  bar  like  a  freighter 
in  a  recedin'  tide.  They  tried  to  annex  me,  but  I  faded 
away.  I'm  through.  The  budge-mixer's  the  natural 
enemy  of  the  profesh.  He  gets  your  money  and  you 
get  next,  but  it's  never  till  the  next  morning.  I  knew  a 
district  attorney  once,  up  north,  who  had  been  prosecutin' 
a  gang  of  cheap  thieves  from  a  bum  district  of  the 
county.  He  was  gettin'  off  his  final  spiel,  and  it  was  a 
beaut'.  'Gentlemen  of  the  jury,'  he  yells,  'they  don't 
raise  anything  on  the  Pine  Plains  but  hell  and  huckleber 
ries  !'  and  it  was  no  lie. 

"Now  on  whisky  the  product's  even  more  limited. 
You  just  raise  hell.  No  more  for  me,  I'm  stickin'  to 
suds.  It's  popular,  the  red-eye,  but  it  doesn't  last  and 
then  it  does.  There's  nothing  in  it  but  a  pneumatic  head 


5o  THE  LASH 

and  a  nimbus  of  cracked  ice  in  the  mornin'.    Your  Uncle 
Mike— Why,  hello,  Fatty !" 

Fatty  Stearns  had  ambled  in  and  stood  regarding  them 
with  a  tender  smile.  Glenwood  pulled  him  into  a  chair 
and  invited  him  to  order  what  he  wanted.  Stearns  was 
soon  busy. 

"Just  ran  out  for  lunch,"  came  from  him  in  muffled 
tones.  "I'm  up  to  my  neck  in  that  golf  game  you  didn't 
have  time  to  do,"  he  told  Glenwood  with  a  reproachful 
glance.  "It's  got  me  wingin'." 

There  were  strange  gurglings  from  Micky,  grown  sud 
denly  wild-eyed.  "Fatty,  Fatty!"  he  moaned.  "Did  you 
say  'game  ?' " 

"Sure  he  did !"  answered  Dick  truculently.  "What's  the 
matter  with  it,  you  little  ape?  I  play  it." 

Micky  dissolved  in  simulated  sobs.  "He  plays  it!" 
he  groaned.  "Oh,  why  was  he  ever  born,  Eliza?  Bet 
ter  never  have  been  born  than  born  a  slave !" 

"We  will  listen,  Micky,"  remarked  Dick  deliberately, 
"to  any  objections  you  have  to  the  greatest,  most  health 
ful—" 

"Oh,  fudge!"  interrupted  Micky.  "I  was  there  once 
and  it's  a  wonder  I  didn't  turn  out  a  lush  for  life.  Honest, 
I'd  done  everything  in  my  time,  but  that  assignment  got 
me  wingin'.  I  get  cross-eyed  yet  every  time  I  think  about 
it  and  I  talk  really  maudlin.  I  can't  tell  what  I  say 
those  times  but  the  boys  say  it's  fierce.  Say  I  murmur 
fool  talk  about  putting  it  onto  the  green  and  bawling 
on  the  bunkers.  I  don't  know.  I  guess  I  got  it  all 
in  my  head  that  time,  but  somehow  I  never  could  make 
it  jibe. 

"You  see  it  was  when  I  was  on  the  Signal  in  Gulf 


THE  IRONWORKERS'  BALL  51 

City.  Old  man  sent  for  me  one  day  and  says,  'There's 
a  three-day  golf  meet  starts  tomorrow  morning  and  it's 
up  to  you.' 

"Now  ordinarily  I'm  the  last  to  buck  at  any  assign 
ment,  but  I'd  seen  a  fellow  dislocate  his  jaw  once  on 
some  of  the  vocabulary  of  that  game,  so  I  sparred  for 
wind. 

"  'I  don't  know  anything  about  it,'  says  I. 

"  'Neither  does  anyone  else,'  says  he. 

"  'Do  the  players  ?'  I  asks  him. 

"  'Damfino !'  he  came  back  at  me.  'Ask  'em.  That's 
what  you're  for.' 

"So  behold  your  Uncle  Mike,  Dick,  about  nine  the  next 
morning  looping  the  links.  I  had  done  a  fuss  stunt  and 
was  got  up  regardless.  Had  one  of  those  long  cutaways 
that  dallied  with  my  ankles ;  they  hadn't  gone  out  in  Gulf 
City.  I  saw  a  bunch  of  busy  boys  humped  up  around  a 
dinky  flag  and  started  for  'em  to  ask  'em  about  it.  One 
of  'em,  I  judged,  was  gettin'  ready  to  whale  a  toad  or 
somethin'  with  an  umbrella  handle.  He'd  hocked  his  hat 
and  hadn't  kept  much  more  than  his  shirt  on  anyway ; 
barrin'  a  pair  of  pants  that  had  got  elephant-tiss-siss-siss, 
or  whatever  you  call  it,  and  looked  like  they  came  off  the 
pile  way  back  in  the  happy  hitherto.  His  shirt  sleeves 
were  rolled  up  and  his  arms  were  the  color  of  sun- 
cured  tobacco,  or  the  mud  pies  that  sister  used  to  bake. 
Oh,  he  was  a  beam-baked  child  of  nature  all  right.  Well, 
he  sees  me  comin'  toward  him,  and  straightens  up  and 
gives  me  the  cold  storage  stare. 

"  'Here,  you !'  he  yells,  'I  can't  drive  over  you !' 
"  'No,   you   bet  you   can't !'   I   yells   back.     'Ain't   it 
scandalous  you  can't?     Why  can't  you?     Did  you  hock 


52  THE  LASH 

the  horse  along  with  the  hat?  Here,  go  buy  yourself  a 
new  one  of  both !'  and  I  tosses  him  a  dime. 

"They  didn't  say  anything  but  it  grew  kind  o'  chilly, 
so  I  turns  up  my  coat  collar  and  wanders  along  and  by  and 
by  I  came  to  the  club  house. 

"It  was  gorgeous  enough  around  there,  looked  like  the 
short  end  at  the  surrender  of  Yorktown.  My  fuss  stunt 
looked  like  mourning  in  that  color  scheme.  I  drifted 
around,  feelin'  lonesome  and  like  a  drab  tassel  on  a  red 
fringe.  It  was  a  new  one  on  me,  but  by  and  by  I  got 
a  look-in  on  the  pools.  They  had  a  set  of  cards  tacked 
on  the  board. 

"There  was  a  big  geezer  in  a  sunrise  coat  goin'  by  just 
then.  I  annexed  him.  'What's  those?'  I  asked  him, 
pointin'  to  the  cards. 

"  'Why,  the  scores,  of  course,'  says  he,  tryin'  to  jerk 
away. 

"  'Well,  how  many  times  do  they  score  before  they 
start?'  I  asks,  hangin'  on.  And  honestly,  Dick,  I  didn't 
know.  I  was  one  up  in  the  air  with  the  parachute  busted, 
and  it  certainly  looked  slow  to  me. 

"He  broke  away,  wouldn't  answer  me  at  all.  It  was 
no  way  to  treat  a  lonesome  tassel.  He  deserved  to  be 
censured  for  turning  me  adrift. 

"Well,  after  awhile  I  struck  a  pretty  decent  guy,  if  he 
did  wear  a  horse  blanket  for  a  vest.  He  said  he'd  help 
me  out,  that  the  scorers  were  busy.  I  suppose  they  were 
flaggin'  the  bad  actors. 

"This  accommodatin'  chap  began  to  go  over  the  cards 
with  me.  I  got  along  all  right  for  a  while  till  I  got  to 
an  X  mark.  'What's  this?'  I  asked  him. 

"  'Oh,'  says  he,  'that's  because  he  struck  his  caddy.' 


THE  IRONWORKERS'  BALL  53 

"Tor  how  much?'  I  asks.  'Besides,  I  supposed  the 
caddies  were  the  ones  to  strike.  They  need  the  money. 
What  races  has  this  bloke  been  playin'  lately?  Must 
have  bet  on  some  brute  that  ran  like  cold  molasses.' 

"  'You  don't  understand,'  says  he.  'He  struck  his 
caddy  with  the  ball.  It  knocks  him  out.' 

"  'I  should  think  it  would,'  says  I,  running  my  finger 
down  the  list.  'Here's  a  fellow  with  two  X's.  That's 
two  down,  ain't  it?  I  should  think  a  ten-strike  would 
make  a  caddy  feel  sore  for  fair.' 

"  'It  makes  a  player  use  language  when  he  does  that,' 
says  the  accommodatin'  chap,  starin'  at  the  board  and 
lookin'  reminiscent. 

"  'Does  the  caddy  contribute?'  I  asked  him. 

"He  didn't  pay  any  attention  to  that,  but  kept  on 
lookin'  dreamy-eyed.  But  I  wanted  to  find  out  about 
things,  so  I  kept  at  him. 

"  'Say/  I  says,  'I  notice  every  once  in  a  while  one  of 
those  guys  yells  'Fore !'  That  means  he's  just  hit  the 
caddy  four  times,  doesn't  it?  The  caddy  gets  all  that's 
comin'  to  him,  doesn't  he?' 

"And  with  that  he  came  to  and  gave  me  a  sad  look- 
over.  Then  he  faded  away  and  I  floated  around  lone 
some  again,  lookin'  for  some  one  to  put  me  wise.  After 
a  while  I  heard  a  couple  of  swell  dames  talkin'. 

;  'Theah,'  one  of  'em  says,  'my  deah,  see  those  two 
young  men?  They  ah  the  Sherrod  twins.  I  declaiah, 
they  ah  so  much  alike  that  I  cawn't  tell  one  from  the 
othah.  One  of  them's  an  expert  golfah,  but  I  declaiah, 
I  cawn't  tell  which  one  he  is.  I  cawn't  guess  why  he 
isn't  playing  today.  The  othah  one  doesn't  play  at 
all.' 


54  THE  LASH 

"I  took  a  look,  and  sure  enough,  they  were  as  near 
alike  as  campaign  promises.  My  move  was  cut  out  for 
me  all  right  and  I  made  a  stab  at  it.  I  steered  up  against 
one  of  'em  and  buttonholed  him. 

"'Say,'  says  I,  'are  you  you  or  your  brother?' 

"He  looked  kind  of  wild  for  a  minute,  but  steadied. 
'Why,  I  guess  I'm  me,'  he  says,  as  if  he  wasn't  sure 
of  it. 

"  'Well,  you're  the  man  I'm  lookin'  for,'  says  I.  'The 
other  one  doesn't  play.'  Sure  enough,  he  was  the  right 
one.  He  was  all  right,  barrin'  the  mashie  microbe,  and 
he  started  in  to  put  me  next.  It  would  have  been  all 
hunk,  only  he  was  the  soul  of  hospitality  and  I  always 
hate  to  say  no.  Besides,  I  wanted  to  forget  it. 

"It  was  highballs  till  sunset  and  then  I  went  away 
after  sticking  out  both  fins  for  farewell  shakes  with  him 
both,  for  he  looked  like  both  him  and  his  twin  to  me. 
It  must  have  been  a  mistake,  for  I  have  a  hazy  recol 
lection  that  the  one  who  didn't  play  left  early.  Any 
way,  my  friend  might  have  been  a  sextette  or  a  full 
chorus  choir,  for  they  all  looked  alike  to  me  about  that 
time.  I  got  down  town,  thinkin'  about  writin'  my  story 
every  now  and  then,  and  I  fell  in  with  a  gang. 

"The  last  I  remember  of  that  story  I  was  in  the  back 
room  of  a  saloon  tryin'  to  write  it.  I  was  writin'  about 
two  words  to  a  page  about  then,  though  once  in  a  while 
I  would  make  an  extra  brace  and  get  in  three.  It  was 
'steen  down  and  a  bluff  to  play  with  me  and  I  was  foozled 
for  fair.  My  stuff  wouldn't  make  sense.  It  just  gib 
bered.  I  don't  know  just  when  I  called  it  off,  but  I 
think  it  was  just  after  I  had  scrawled  a  screed  to  the 
effect  that  'Willie  Van  Hackensack,  instead  of  approach- 


THE  IRONWORKERS'  BALL  55 

ing  the  tea  as  he  should,  had  bunked  hazardous  high 
balls  till  he  was  batty  in  his  loft.'  It  was  no  lie,  either, 
only  it  didn't  belong  in  the  story. 

"That  story  never  got  to  the  Signal,  Fatty,  and  I  didn't 
either.  It  got  lost  somewhere  and  so  did  I.  I  came 
out  of  it  about  a  week  later,  with  Gulf  City  'way  back 
beyant  the  blue  and  me  sitting  by  the  old  familiar  track, 
waiting  for  a  freight. 

"No  golf  in  mine,  Dick,  it  holed  me  for  fair.  It's  an 
excuse,  that's  all.  When  you  aren't  out  huntin'  low  balls 
you're  inside  huntin'  highballs.  After  a  while  you  can't 
tell  a  mashie  from  a  ball  bat.  I  don't  know  what  a 
mashie  is,  but  I  do  know  what  a  highball  bat  is.  It's 
generally  a  job,  unless  you  break  it  off  in  the  middle. 
Do  you  follow  me,  Fatty?  If  you  do,  I'm  sorry  for 
you." 

It  was  with  a  windy  sigh  and  a  look  of  added  dejection 
that  Fatty  Stearns  rose  to  return  to  the  office  and  finish 
his  account  of  the  golf  tourney.  "Just  forget  what  Micky 
told  you,"  called  Dick  after  him,  "or  you'll  get  all  mixed 
up  and  get  the  run  in  the  morning."  Then  he  surveyed 
Micky  with  that  smile,  so  exasperating  in  golfers,  the 
smile  of  forgiving  pity  for  the  man  outside. 

"Of  course,  you  never  played,  Micky,"  he  remarked. 
"If  you  ever  had — " 

"Forget  it,  Dick/'  said  Micky  briskly.  "I  want  to.  Say, 
do  you  dance?" 

"Why,  I  don't  know,"  answered  Dick  doubtfully,  taken 
aback  by  the  swift  change  of  subject.  "Ask  some  of 
my  partners.  I'm  in  doubt  myself  and  aching  to  know." 

"And  they  know  and  are  aching,"  grinned  Micky. 
"Well,  we'll  try  you  out.  Come  on,"  he  added,  rising, 


56  THE  LASH 

"let's  go  over  to  the  Ironworkers'  ball.  They'll  be  going 
for  an  hour  yet."  They  left  the  cafe,  and  after  a  little 
bolted  up  the  wide  stairway  of  a  big  brick  block.  En 
countering  a  stalwart  young  fellow  behind  a  ticket  table 
on  a  landing,  Dick's  hand  sought  his  pocket.  Micky 
restrained  him,  and  nodding  to  the  sentry,  who  knew  him, 
they  passed  up  to  the  final  landing,  where  a  burst  of 
music  saluted  them.  A  number  of  couples  were  "cool 
ing  off"  there.  Dick  peered  curiously  inside.  "How 
do  they  dance  in  such  a  crush?"  he  inquired. 

"Why,  when  these  husky  guys  are  dancin'  with  'em," 
explained  Micky,  "their  feet  don't  touch  the  floor  at  all, 
and  the  men  don't  count." 

Indeed,  the  brawny  cavaliers  were  well  nigh  making 
Micky's  comment  good.  The  prompter,  a  big  red-faced 
fellow  with  a  bull's  voice,  just  then  roared,  "Swing  your 
partners !"  It  was  the  relished  order,  for  every  iron 
worker  there  had  from  earliest  dancing  days  devoted  him 
self  without  mercy  to  the  mastery  of  the  art  of  swinging. 
At  the  welcome  call,  each  swain,  an  arm  encircling  his 
partner's  waist  gently  but  firmly,  placed  one  calloused 
paw  against  the  lady's  back,  just  below  the  shoulder 
blades,  while  her  palm  sought  his  arm.  His  other  hand 
sought  her  free  one  and  extended  it  out  sideways  and  a 
little  upward.  This  served  a  double  purpose,  sufficing  to 
fend  off  danger  from  colliding  circlers  and  to  add  impetus 
to  the  ensuing  maelstrom.  Then,  while  the  fiddlers  bent 
to  their  work,  there  whizzed  a  general  centrifugal  whirl, 
with  a  soft  scuff  of  pivoting  feet  and  the  swish  of  agitated 
lingerie.  That  it  was  as  delightful  as  dizzying  was  evi 
denced  by  the  appreciative  comments  of  the  breathless 


THE  IRONWORKERS'  BALL  57 

fair,  as  the  spinning  knights  halted  them,  preparatory  to 
starting  the  next  figure. 

"I'm  a  thirty-third  on  that,"  announced  Micky  com 
placently.  "Can  you  do  it,  Dick?" 

Dick  was  dubious.  "Well,  probably  they'll  have  a  waltz 
or  two-step  next,"  proceeded  Micky  reassuringly.  "They 
sandwich  in  round  ones  after  every  square  deal  lately. 
Gettin'  what  Bill  Nye  called  ray-sher-shay.  Come  on, 
here's  one  I  know.  I'll  put  you  next  for  the  next."  He 
dragged  Dick  over  to  a  big  blonde  and  left  them  intro 
duced  and  waiting  for  a  two-step. 

The  quadrille  ended  and  Micky  watched  the  dancers 
scrambling  for  seats,  of  which  there  were  an  insufficiency. 
The  overflow  billowed  out  upon  the  landing,  laughing 
and  demanding  room  at  the  open  windows.  Micky, 
from  the  doorway,  beheld  with  sudden  interest  a  vision 
seated  across  the  hall.  He  grasped  an  acquaintance  by 
the  arm. 

"Say,  Lacy,"  he  demanded  impetuously,  "if  you  know 
that,  knock  me  down  to  it,  will  you?" 

So  Micky  was  conveyed  across  the  room  and  formally 
knocked  down  to  Miss  Maisie  Muldoon.  The  end  was 
well  worth  his  enterprise.  Small  and  prettily  formed, 
with  eyes  of  truest  Irish  blue,  the  loveliest  shade  of  brown 
hair  extant  and  a  complexion  of  milk  and  roses,  she 
was  charming.  She  was  simply  gowned  in  duck  skirt 
and  an  airy  confection  of  diaphanous  white  waist,  which 
revealed  tantalizing  glimpses  of  sweet  white  neck  and 
arms.  Micky  mentally  registered  her  "a  dream." 

"Will  you  dance?"  he  asked,  crowding  into  a  seat  be 
side  her. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  Mr. — er — O'Byrn,"  she  answered. 


58  THE  LASH 

"My  card  seems  to  be  full  already.  I  might  give  you 
an  extra,  if  they  have  one,"  with  a  mischievous  glance. 

"You  might  scratch  half  a  dozen  of  those  names," 
suggested  Micky  easily,  "and  substitute  mine.  It  looks 
prettier." 

"I  believe  you're  a  newspaper  man,  aren't  you?" 
freezingly.  "Seems  to  me  I've  heard  so." 

"How  do  you  like  'em?"  he  demanded,  his  impudent 
eyes  twinkling. 

"If  you're  any  sample,  they  seem  to  have  a  crust/' 
witheringly. 

"So  does  any  good  thing,"  he  chuckled.  "Don't  you 
like  pie?" 

She  laughed  in  spite  of  herself.  "Say,"  she  acknowl 
edged,  turning  her  charming  face  toward  his  freckled 
one  with  decided  interest,  "you  ain't  so  worse !  I  almost 
wish  I  had  a  dance  for  you." 

"Maybe  one  of  'em  will  die,"  said  Micky  hopefully. 
"If  I  can  be  of  any  help—" 

"The  music's  starting,"  she  interrupted.  "It's  a  two- 
step  and  I've  got  it  with  Billy  Ryan.  He's  rotten  on  that. 
Are  you  ?" 

"I'm  probably  the  ripest  peach  of  a  two-stepper," 
averred  Micky,  "that  ever  triangled  down  a  floor.  I'm 
a  pippin.  Where  is  your  gazabe?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  replied,  looking  about  frowningly. 
"Maybe  he  won't  come."  Micky  waxed  complacent  at 
the  discreet  hope  lingering  in  her  tone. 

The  dance  was  well  under  way.  Dick  shuffled  past, 
the  big  blonde  in  his  arms.  He  seemed  enjoying  himself. 
Micky  grew  impatient. 

"Went  out  for  another  drink,  I  guess,"  remarked  Miss 


THE  IRONWORKERS'  BALL  59 

Maisie  disgustedly,  in  another  moment.  "Come  on,  I 
sha'n't  wait  for  him,"  and  she  rose. 

"Went  a  block  for  a  beer  with  a  Manhattan  right  in 
side,"  murmured  Micky,  as  they  prepared  to  start.  "Oh, 
you  g'wan !"  she  laughed,  and  they  swung  into  the  revolv 
ing  circle. 

Micky's  boast  of  terpsichorean  ability  made  good,  (he 
had  picked  up  the  art  long  before,  as  readily  as  he  did 
everything  else,)  he  was  rewarded  with  two  more  regu 
lars  and  an  extra  before  the  affair  ended.  One  of  the 
regulars  was  originally  scheduled  with  the  recreant  Ryan, 
\vlio  appeared  for  it  in  due  course  and  retired  con 
gealed,  with  a  black  look  at  the  grinning  O'Byrn.  The 
other  regular  had  originally  been  Miss  Muldoon's  cousin's. 
She  transferred  it  airily,  but  the  cousin  bore  it  with  the 
equanimity  of  a  mere  relative. 

"I  suppose  you've  got  company  home?"  inquired  Micky, 
with  a  certain  mournful  hesitation,  as  they  were  finishing 
the  last  dance. 

"Not  yet,"  she  answered  demurely.  "That  is,"  with  a 
flash  of  blue  eyes,  "Mr.  Ryan  brought  me  but  he  sha'n't 
take  me  back.  He's  too  thirsty.  That  first  dance  you  got 
was  the  second  he'd  missed  with  me." 

"Forget  him!"  breathed  Micky  ecstatically.  "I'm  in 
luck."  He  invariably  took  things  for  granted. 

"But,"  she  recollected,  chilling  somewhat,  "I  haven't 
accepted  your  escort  yet,  Mr. — er — O'Byrn.  I  never  met 
you  till  tonight." 

"O,  happy  night !"  he  retorted,  with  the  impudence 
that  time  would  never  wither  nor  custom  stale.  "Aren't 
you  glad  you  came?" 

She  laughed  again,  a  girlish,  joyous  laugh  that  warmed 


60  THE  LASH 

the  heart  in  the  hearing.  "I'm  it,"  she  averred.  "You 
are  certainly  the  limit.  But  you  aren't  in  such  luck  as 
you  think.  It's  a  long  way  home." 

"Never  too  long  with  you  for  a  pacemaker,"  he  as 
sured  her.  "And  luck — I  know  the  varieties.  I've  had  all 
kinds."  So,  as  the  last  waltz  ceased  and  the  dancers 
prepared  for  departure,  he  hastened  to  the  door,  where 
Dick  was  waiting  for  him,  and  dismissed  that  gentle 
man.  Glenwood  raised  his  eyebrows  comprehensively  and 
departed  alone. 

The  way  was  short  to  Mulberry  Avenue,  all  too  short 
for  Micky,  and  as  for  the  lady — well,  it  would  have 
seemed  longer  had  the  discredited  Ryan  been  in  her 
company.  There  was  the  first  faint  hint  of  dawn  in  the 
shrouded  sky  as  Micky  left  the  girl  at  her  door  and  turned 
away,  with  her  gracious  permission  to  call  on  his  next 
night  off.  So  Micky  turned  to  retrace  the  way  now 
suddenly  grown  long ;  agitated  stirrings  in  his  warm 
Irish  heart  that  he  could  not  have  explained,  those  first 
faint  harbingers  that  come  to  us  all,  poor  children  of 
fleeting  youth,  and  are  stilled  ere  we  can  understand. 

Ah,  youth !  with  its  thrilled  pulses  and  fragrant,  un 
spoiled  heart,  its  mysteries  divine — and  the  arid  waste 
beyond,  when  dreams  are  done !  It's  a  long  way  home, 
indeed ! 


CHAPTER   VI 

THE   WEB 

A  WHOLESALE  liquor  establishment  supplied  a 
portion  of  Shaughnessy's  income.     Time  was, 
some  years  before,  when   it  had  demanded  all 
of  its  proprietor's  time  and  undeniable  talents, 
but  now  a  gradually  increasing  if  reprehensible   sphere 
of   usefulness   had    made    it   a    side-issue.      However,    it 
continued  to  yield  its  owner  a  satisfying  revenue  and  the 
wicked   prospered,   after    the    fashion    of   this   good   old 
world. 

The  fourth  ward,  contiguous  to  Goldberg's,  while  free 
and  easy  enough,  in  very  truth,  was  respectable  in  com 
parison  with  the  notorious  fifth.  It  was  in  this  fourth 
ward,  in  the  quietest  district,  that  Shaughnessy's  whole 
sale  house  was  located.  It  was  in  the  dingy  office  of  this 
old  brick  building  that  the  dark  schemes  were  matured 
which,  with  the  aid  of  the  worst  elements  in  the  city, 
dominated  its  affairs.  Here  Shaughnessy  reigned  su 
preme,  an  unobtrusive  king. 

Shaughnessy  sat  at  his  desk  one  warm  evening  holding 
converse  with  his  two  faithful  satellites,  Abe  Goldberg 
and  Dick  Peterson.  The  office  was  carefully  closed  to 
chance  encroachment  and  the  men  talked  in  subdued 
tones.  As  usual,  the  cabal's  plans  had  been  carefully 
discussed,  then  the  conversation  shifted  to  a  minor  mat- 


62  THE  LASH 

ter.  It  was  the  offense  of  which  Nick  Slade  had  been 
guilty,  in  aiding  the  journalistic  enemy  by  telling  O'Byrn 
of  the  row  at  Goldberg's  saloon.  Slade,  by  the  way,  was 
a  heeler  under  the  direct  charge  of  Peterson,  and  he  had 
done  work  which  had  commended  him  to  that  astute 
though  apparently  unsophisticated  worthy. 

"He  ought  to  get  the  run,"  Goldberg  growled.  "What 
use  is  a  man  to  us  that  don't  stand  by  the  gang?  Of 
course,  that  row  wasn't  exactly  mixed  up  with  our  do 
ings,  but  a  lot  of  our  men  was  mixed  up  in  it,  and  it  ain't 
the  kind  of  advertising  that's  goin'  to  do  us  any  good. 
Then  this  Slade  goes  and  tips  off  the  whole  business.  He 
ought  to  be  kicked  out." 

"Hold  on,  Goldberg,"  said  Peterson.  "I  know  all 
about  the  deal.  I've  talked  with  Slade.  Now  you  know 
Slade  is  shady  with  the  police.  Of  course,  there  are 
others,  but  they've  got  it  in  for  Slade  for  more  than  one 
reason  and  he  ain't  important  enough  to  be  immune. 
As  luck  would  have  it,  they  were  going  to  nab  him  the 
other  night  for  a  piece  of  light-fingered  work  that  he 
didn't  happen  to  be  concerned  with.  This  Courier  chap, 
who  seems  to  be  a  corker  anyway,  had  picked  up  ac 
quaintance  with  Slade  in  some  way,  and,  more  than  that, 
he  happened  to  know  the  right  party  the  police  were 
after  and  he  got  Slade  off.  Well,  what  could  Slade  do 
when  the  fellow  asked  for  the  tip  at  your  place?  Of 
course,  he  could  have  turned  him  down  flat,  but  that 
wouldn't  have  been  natural,  would  it?" 

Before  Goldberg  could  reply,  Shaughnessy's  cold  voice 
cut  in.  "Is  he  worth  while?"  he  asked  of  Peterson. 

"He's  O.  K.,"  replied  that  worthy,  with  conviction. 
"One  of  the  best—" 


THE  WEB  63 

Shaughnessy  turned  to  Goldberg.  "Then  forget  it," 
he  said  dryly.  "Keep  on  using  him,  if  he's  any  good. 
He's  hardly  worth  firing.  Exercise  your  firing  privilege 
for  the  officers'  quarters ;  you  need  the  men  in  the  ranks." 

With  which  characteristic  bit  of  philosophy,  Shaugh 
nessy  stretched  his  arms  and  yawned.  The  others  rose, 
the  conference  having  been  closed,  and  lighting  fresh 
cigars,  left  the  office.  Shaughnessy  was  left  alone.  He 
leaned  back  lazily  in  his  office  chair,  his  thin  hands  clasped 
behind  his  head,  his  expressionless  eyes  watching  the 
smoke  that  curled  upward  leisurely  from  the  tip  of  his 
cigar.  His  white  face  would  hold  no  more  of  immobility 
when  he  should  lie  dead.  Under  the  gaslight  he  re 
clined  at  ease,  staring  upward.  In  the  eyes,  the  queer, 
black,  heavy-lided  eyes,  there  was  a  momentary  lack  alike 
of  definite  scrutiny  or  the  soft,  impalpable  veil  that  is 
drawn  by  transitory  dreams  of  better  things.  Rather 
were  they  like  a  sluggish  serpent's ;  lustreless,  forebod 
ing,  unwinking  and  infinitely,  sleeplessly  sinister.  They 
stared  with  a  reptilian  fixedness,  seeing  nothing.  Thus 
for  a  space,  and  then  they  lighted  with  a  gleam  of  strange 
malevolence,  as  the  thin,  grim  lips  of  Shaughnessy  re 
laxed  under  the  small  black  moustache  in  a  smile  that  was 
not  good  to  see.  Some  secret  reflection  had  evidently 
pleased  the  boss. 

He  suddenly  leaned  forward  in  his  chair  and  turned 
to  his  desk,  extracting  some  papers  which  he  surveyed 
with  quiet  satisfaction  and  replaced.  As  he  did  so  he 
started  violently,  then  sank  back  in  his  chair,  his  face 
drawn  lugubriously  with  sudden  pain ;  the  natural  pallor 
giving  place  to  a  ghastly  gray.  His  hands  were  clasped 
at  his  left  side  and  he  gasped  for  breath.  In  a  moment 


64  THE  LASH 

the  paroxysm  passed,  and  Shaughnessy  sat  limp  in  his 
chair  with  sprawling  legs  and  nerveless  hands,  his  head 
bent  forward.  Presently  he  sought  his  handkerchief  with 
shaking  fingers  and  wiped  the  cold  beads  of  perspiration 
from  his  forehead.  Then  he  rose  slowly,  and  with 
trembling  knees  tottered  to  a  small  cupboard  and  pro 
duced  a  flask  and  glass.  Pouring  out  a  stiff  draught 
of  brandy,  he  swallowed  it  at  a  gulp,  replaced  the  bottle 
and  glass  and  walked  back  to  his  chair.  His  eyes,  again 
inscrutable,  sought  the  clock ;  his  face,  once  more  an 
impassive  mask,  was  turned  toward  the  door.  Shaugh 
nessy  was  game. 

A  moment  more  and  there  was  the  sound  of  footsteps 
outside,  then  a  cautious  tapping  summoned  at  the  door. 
Shaughnessy  stepped  forward  and  released  the  spring 
lock  which  had  confined  it,  standing  aside  to  allow  his 
visitor's  entrance,  then  snapped  the  door  shut.  Placing 
a  chair  conveniently,  he  motioned  his  caller  into  it  and 
resumed  his  own  seat. 

The  caller  sat  regarding  Shaughnessy  with  an  odd 
nervousness.  He  was  plainly  ill  at  ease.  An  old  man 
he  was,  with  gray  hair  and  beard  and  faded  blue  eyes, 
whose  wonted  amiability  was  just  now  shadowed  by  an 
unmistakable  expression  of  helplessness.  A  pair  of  gold- 
bowed  eyeglasses  dangled  at  the  end  of  a  silken  cord 
looped  about  his  collar ;  the  cut  and  texture  of  his  black 
garb  indicated  prosperity  as  well  as  solid  respectability. 
The  impression  was  heightened  by  the  old-fashioned  high 
collar  and  the  white  lawn  tie.  The  thin  white  hands,  on 
which  the  blue  veins  showed  prominently,  nervously 
fumbled  a  black  slouch  hat.  Shaughnessy's  eyes  rested 
an  instant  upon  the  headgear. 


THE  WEB  65 

"You  ordinarily  wear  a  silk  hat,  don't  you,  Judge?" 
he  asked.  "What's  the  matter?  Isn't  this  part  of  the 
town  good  enough  for  it,  or  does  this  one  help  to  shade 
your  eyes  from  the  light?"  The  visitor  winced  and  the 
boss  smiled  cruelly. 

"One  has  to  be  careful, — "  began  the  old  man,  and 
hesitated. 

"Sure,"  acquiesced  the  leader,  grimly.  "A  good  many 
eyes  would  open  to  see  you  in  here  with  me.  And  I 
suppose  you  left  your  carriage  a  few  blocks  back  and 
walked?  Your  discretion  does  you  credit.  Well,  you 
can  afford  to  come  here  better  than  you  can  afford 
to  have  me  go  to  your  house,  which  I  should  have  done 
if  you  had  not  wisely  concluded  to  accept  my  polite 
invitation  to  call.  Some  of  your  holy  neighbors  would 
have  been  surprised,  wouldn't  they?  Well,  Judge,  sav 
ing  your  venerable  presence,  they  generally  have  to  come 
to  me, — because  I  know  things." 

The  spare  form  fidgeted,  the  faded  blue  eyes  sought 
waveringly  Shaughnessy's  black  ones  that  were  now 
quickened  with  a  baleful  fire.  "What  do  you  want?" 
asked  the  visitor.  "I  am  an  old  man, — I  was  through 
long  since — " 

Shaughnessy  bent  forward.  "No,  you  are  not  through," 
he  said  with  a  softness  that  was  metallic.  "You  are 
not  through  while  you  live  and  I  need  you.  Under 
stand  that !  You  served  me  on  the  bench ;  you  shall 
serve  me  now !  Else —  He  paused  significantly  while 
his  companion's  face  whitened.  "Now  listen.  I  am  com 
ing  to  be  known  ;  you  are  not.  You  are  respectable !" 
with  an  ugly  sneer.  "Now  this  is  the  programme,  and 
it'll  feaze  the  yelping  fools  that  are  after  me,  just  as 


66  THE  LASH 

it'll  feaze  you,  my  dear  friend,  in  a  minute.  The  Demo 
cratic  convention  will  be  held  just  before  the  'Cits'  hold 
theirs.  The  'Cits'  are  inconveniently  in  earnest  this 
year  and  they're  talking  of  putting  up  a  man  who'll  cause 
us  trouble.  Now  there'll  be  a  dummy  candidate,  a  ma 
chine  man,  in  the  Democratic  convention,  who'll  be  mine. 
Well,  he'll  be  knocked  out ;  decency  will  give  the  old 
Democracy  heart  disease  by  swooping  down  on  her  out 
of  a  clear  sky ;  there'll  be  an  honored  name  proposed 
that'll  sweep  the  convention  off  its  feet,  and  that  honored 
name,  my  dear  Judge,  will  be  your  own !" 

The  old  man  sprang  to  his  feet,  shivering  as  with  the 
ague.  He  shook  impotent,  furious  fists,  his  pale  eyes 
glaring.  "Damn  you!"  he  cried,  "I  won't  do  it!  Never! 
never!  do  you  understand, — you — devil?" 

Shaughnessy's  hand  closed  on  an  object  on  his  desk. 
He  rose,  shaking  a  bundle  of  documents  in  his  caller's 
face.  "I  understand,"  he  muttered  menacingly,  "and— 
you  understand.  You  understand  that  you  will  serve 
as  the  next  mayor  of  this  city — or  you  will  serve  time !" 

The  old  man  fell  into  his  chair  and  buried  his  face  in 
his  hands,  while  Shaughnessy  smiled,  his  eyes  alight  with 
malice. 


CHAPTER  VII 

LONELINESS 

A   BIG  figure  arose  from  a  desk  at  the  opposite 
side  of  the  room.    Glenwood  handed  in  a  bulky 
wad  of  matter  to  be  read  and  strolled  over  to 
O'Byrn's  desk.     Throwing  himself  into  a  con 
venient  chair,  he  produced  his  cigar  case.     They  lighted 
weeds  and  sat  for  a  time  in  congenial  if  smoky  silence. 

It  was  Micky's  night  off,  but  it  was  early.  He  was 
loitering  about  the  office  for  a  few  moments  before 
leaving  to  fulfill  an  engagement  that  had  become  usual. 
He  now  sat  regarding  Glenwood  appreciatively.  What 
a  man  he  was,  to  be  sure !  He  sat  at  indolent  ease,  his 
feet  on  Micky's  desk,  hands  clasped  behind  his  hand 
some  blonde  head,  staring  dreamily  far  beyond  the  lit 
tered  room.  He  wore  no  coat.  Micky  marked  the  deep 
chest,  the  swell  of  the  splendid  muscles  outlined  be 
neath  the  folds  of  the  soft  outing  shirt,  the  well  set 
neck.  There  was  the  suggestion,  none  the  less  strong 
in  repose,  of  mingled  virility  and  grace.  Strength  of 
great  scope  was  here,  strength  that  had  once  against 
odds  rescued  him,  O'Byrn,  from  an  unpleasant  predica 
ment. 

How  puny  was  he,  O'Byrn,  by  contrast,  physically — 
and  morally.  Ah,  but  that  last  thought  stung!  For 
here  was  a  man  who  was  thoroughly  master  of  himself, 


68  THE  LASH 

without  being  a  milksop.  His  was  no  pedestal.  He  was 
one  of  the  boys,  yet  liberty  did  not  spell  license  with 
him.  There  was  for  him  no  painful  crawl  up  a  slippery 
toboggan  of  renewed  intentions,  following  a  wild,  shoot 
ing  descent  that  had  left  him  gasping  and  breathless  at 
the  bottom.  Glenwood's  was  the  absolutely  perfect  mech 
anism  of  the  normal.  Tough  fibred,  richly  endowed  in 
mental,  moral  and  physical  equipment  from  long  genera 
tions  of  right  livers,  how  different  was  his  lot  from 
O'Byrn's,  cursed  at  the  outset  with  a  vicious  appetite 
which  had  been  fostered  from  the  beginning  by  the  man 
who  had  bequeathed  it ;  hampered,  too,  with  an  indifferent 
physique  that  rendered  the  more  hopeless  the  boy's  strug 
gles  with  his  mastering  vice.  True,  after  all,  mused 
Micky  bitterly,  that  men  are  created  equal  in  only  limited 
senses. 

He  rose  abruptly  and  walked  to  the  window,  staring 
out  into  the  soft  night,  for  the  ebon  had  settled  down. 
Close  by  loomed  the  shadowy  bulk  of  the  city  hall,  dwarf 
ing  the  stark  ambitious  blocks  that  were  its  lesser  neigh 
bors.  Under  the  luminous  moon  glittered  an  adjacent 
church  spire ;  stars  peppered  the  curtained  sky.  Far 
down,  amid  the  glare  of  myriad  electric  lights,  there 
arose  the  faint  roll  of  carriage  wheels,  drowned  the 
next  moment  in  the  rumble  of  passing  street  cars.  Within 
there  sounded  the  sharp  click  of  typewriters  ;  in  a  sudden 
lull  there  was  audible  the  ticking  of  a  telegraph  key  at 
the  end  of  the  room.  A  man  entered  hastily,  seated 
himself  before  a  desk  and  began  to  write  like  mad. 
Another  young  fellow,  after  a  few  brief  words  from  the 
city  editor,  seized  his  hat  and  hurried  on  a  mission. 
The  room  was  unwontedly  busy  for  so  early  an  hour. 


LONELINESS  69 

Copy  boys  scurried,  telephone  bells  rang,  editors  sum 
moned  and  reporters  scuttled.  Always  there  poured  into 
the  great  room,  in  strange  and  turbulent  contrast  to  the 
wicleflung  peace  of  dead  white  moon  and  watching  stars 
in  the  black  night  sky  outside,  the  unresting  flood,  the 
formidable  torrent  of  life  and  death  and  the  joys  and  ills 
that  lurk  between,  called  News. 

Micky  stared  out  of  the  window,  oblivious  to  the  whirl 
within.  It  would  have  distracted  a  novice.  To  the 
veteran  it  meant  only  the  inevitable  environment  of  ef 
fort.  Many  such  find  it  difficult  to  write  in  the  midst 
of  quietude.  Of  such  was  Micky,  and  so  it  was  that, 
with  no  scribbling  to  do,  he  could  lose  himself  in  vague, 
sad  contemplation  of  moon  and  stars  and  black  night 
sky,  with  the  roar  of  the  flood  no  louder  in  his  unheed 
ing  ears  than  the  ripple  of  a  little  river  through  June 
meadows.  It  was  with  a  start  that  he  was  recalled  to 
earth  with  a  violent  slap  upon  his  thin  shoulder.  He 
turned,  eyes  still  wool-gathering,  to  confront  Dick. 

"What's  the  dream?"  demanded  that  worthy,  smiling 
down  at  him.  "Isn't  this  something  new?" 

"Why,"  answered  Micky,  a  little  confusedly,  "I  was 
thinking.  Yes,"  with  a  laugh  but  with  sober  eyes,  ''it's 
something  new,  Dick,  I  guess.  It  would  be  better  if  it 
were  oftener,"  a  little  wistfully. 

Dick,  staring  out  of  the  window,  readily  fell  in  with 
his  mood.  "Thinking?  Yes,  it's  a  good  thing, — some 
times.  But  you  don't  have  much  time  for  it  in  this 
business." 

"No,"  rejoined  Micky  thoughtfully.  "You  need  to  put 
in  all  your  hustling  on  the  job,  and  it  don't  give  you 
time  for  a  heavy  load  under  your  roof."  He  glanced  at 


;o  THE  LASH 

the  clock.  "Well,  I  must  be  going.  Didn't  know  it  was 
so  late.  Gimme  a  cigar." 

Dick  produced  one  and  Micky  proceeded  to  light  up. 
Dick  surveyed  the  other's  unwonted  immaculateness  with 
an  air  of  understanding.  "Give  her  my  regards,"  he 
said. 

"Her?"  repeated  Micky,  in  simulated  amazement.  "Nit; 
you're  off.  I'm  going  to  cut  coupons  tonight ;  they're 
accumulating  on  me."  He  vanished  with  a  grin  and  Dick 
sauntered  back  to  his  desk. 

Micky  descended  in  the  elevator  and  stepped  forth  into 
the  cool  night  air.  He  stood  for  a  moment  in  indecision, 
debating  whether  he  should  take  a  car.  Too  fine  a  night 
to  ride,  he  decided,  and  started  down  the  street  at  a 
brisk  pace.  Presently  leaving  the  crowded  thoroughfare 
for  a  quieter  side  street,  he  proceeded  southward.  After  a 
half  an  hour's  walk  he  turned  a  final  corner  and  was 
on  Mulberry  Avenue.  Down  the  street  he  went  to  a 
modest  little  dwelling,  with  a  light  shining  from  the 
shaded  parlor  windows.  He  ascended  the  steps  and  rang 
the  bell.  The  door  opened.  Micky  stepped  inside  and 
they  entered  the  tiny  parlor. 

The  door  communicating  with  the  sitting  room  opened 
ever  so  cautiously.  A  freckled,  inquisitive  face  appeared 
unobtrusively  in  the  gap,  but  Maisie  saw  it.  "Terence !" 
she  exclaimed,  and  the  face  disappeared.  Maisie  slammed 
the  door  shut  with  asperity,  then,  taking  a  seat  near 
it,  turned  her  pretty  face  toward  her  caller.  "You're 
late,  Micky,"  said  she  reprovingly.  Micky  was  progres 
sive.  It  had  not  taken  him  long  to  induce  her  to  address 
him  by  his  Christian  name. 

"Yes,"  admitted  Micky.    "I  didn't  know  it  was  so  late. 


LONELINESS  71 

I  forgot  to  wind  my  watch,  anyway.  What  time  is  it?" 
He  moved  toward  her,  his  timepiece  in  his  hand.  It  was 
an  old  silver  hunting-case  affair.  In  fumbling  with  the 
spring  to  open  it,  the  rear  cover  opened,  disclosing  the 
faded  picture  of  a  woman.  Micky  held  it  out  to  the 
girl. 

"My  mother,"  he  said  simply.  "She  died  when  I  was 
little."  Maisie  looked  at  the  sweet  face  and  patient 
eyes  a  moment,  then  her  look  sought  Micky's  face.  It 
held  an  unwonted  gravity,  the  blue  eyes  were  a  little 
misty.  He  leaned  over  her,  his  gaze  bent  upon  the  dial  of 
her  smart  little  watch. 

"Eight  forty-five,  eh?"  he  exclaimed.  "Whew!  it  is 
late."  He  set  his  watch  and  then  began  winding  it.  "That 
case  is  loose,  I  must  get  it  fixed,"  he  pursued.  He  glanced 
again  at  the  girl's  timepiece,  then  whimsically  shook  his 
own.  "Not  much  like  yours,  is  it?"  he  said,  with  a  sorry 
smile.  "Poor  little  turnip!  But  it'll  be  buried  with  me, 
Maisie,  I'll  never  have  another.  I  don't  want  another. 
You  see, — she  gave  it  to  me." 

He  sank  into  a  chair,  his  face  in  the  shadow.  "I  can 
sec  it  now7,"  he  pursued  in  a  low  voice,  "just  as  if  it  was 
yesterday.  How  tickled  I  was!  and  so  was  she,  to  see 
me  so.  There  were  just  us  two,  and  now — I'm  alone. 
Oh !  it's  years  ago,  but  it's  one  of  those  things  that'll 
hurt  every  time  I  remember  it — now  she's  gone — will  hurt 
till  I  go,  too!  Of  course  it  didn't  cost  her  much,  poor 
little  woman.  It  couldn't ;  she  didn't  have  it.  How  she 
managed  to  save  the  few  poor  dollars  for  it,  God  knows  ;  I 
can't  figure  it.  But  she  did,  and  one  day  when  I  got  in  from 
selling  my  papers,  she  met  me  and  gave  it  to  me.  And 
I  was  only  a  kid,  Maisie,  and  I  up  and  bellered  like  a 


72  THE  LASH 

calf,  with  my  arms  around  her, — and  she  cried,  too ;  and 
it  wasn't  very  long, — "  his  voice  broke  for  a  moment, — 
"it  wasn't  very  long  after  that, — it  was  dark  and  cold 
I  remember,  and  snowflakes  in  the  air, — and  I  was  cry 
ing  and  trying  to  pull  away  from  them  while  they  were 
leading  me  away — from — her  grave." 

It  was  very  still.  The  girl  averted  her  eyes ;  they  were 
full  of  tears.  O'Byrn  sat  in  the  shadow,  his  head  bent. 
In  a  moment  he  resumed. 

"I've  knocked  around  from  pillar  to  post  since  then, 
Maisie,  from  one  end  of  the  land  to  the  other.  I've  lived 
high  and  low,  from  glad  rags  to  just  plain  rags.  I  could 
always  get  a  job — and  I  could  always  lose  it.  Oh,  yes, 
I  might  as  well  be  frank,"  with  a  bitter  laugh.  "It's 
whisky — a  heritage.  Not  all  the  time — fits  that  I  can't 
help — every  now  and  then — like  bad  dreams,  only  worse 
— they're  real !  It's  at  those  times  that  the  old  feeling 
grips  me,  too, — to  keep  movin'.  Why,  I  usually  wake 
up  where  everything's  strange — and  I  have  to  ask  'em 
where  I  am.  I've  been  on  the  road  to  something  worth 
while  so  often — and  always  kicked  it  over.  And  it 
cropped  out  in  me  so  young!  You'd  be  surprised— 

"Oh,  don't!"  she  cried.  He  stared  at  her  mutely. 
"What  makes  you  say  such  horrible  things  about  your 
self?"  she  pursued  passionately,  a  quiver  in  her  voice. 
"Do  you  want  me  to  believe — 

"The  truth,"  he  interrupted,  gently.  "Only  the  truth. 
Of  course,  I  haven't  known  you  long,  but  it  seems  like 
all  my  life.  I'd  feel  like  a  yellow  dog,  somehow,  if  I 
shouldn't  tell  you.  But  then,  we  won't  say  anything 
more  about  it.  I'm  not  to  blame,  exactly ;  it  was  a 
present.  We'll  go  back,  there  isn't  much  to  tell.  It's 


LONELINESS  73 

always  been  the  newspaper  business  with  me.  Odds  and 
ends  at  first,  then  they  found  I  could  write,  and  I've 
been  at  it  ever  since.  I  wasn't  much  on  education,  but 
I've  picked  up  quite  a  lot,  and  I've  seen  the  country. 
Oh,  I've  had  my  dreams.  Maybe  I  could  do  something 
sometime — if — "  He  broke  off  abruptly. 

She  sprang  up,  coming  quickly  to  him.  Her  little 
hand  sought  his  arm.  "Micky,"  she  breathed  softly,  with 
shining  eyes,  "do  it!  You  can;  it's  in  you;  if  you  will 
only  leave  off — and  you  can — you  must!  Think  of  her, 
Micky, — she  cried  over  you — perhaps  she's  crying  yet! 
Make  her  smile,  instead !  Oh,  what  makes  me  talk  to 
you  like  this,  only  knowing  you  a  few  weeks?  What 
right-" 

He  caught  her  hand  as  she  moved  slowly  away  and 
drew  her  back.  "What  right?"  he  echoed  warmly.  "The 
best  in  the  world !  It  does  me  good !  You're  a  true 
friend,  you  are,  and  you  can  see  what  a  mess  I've  made 
of  my  life  and  how  I  could  do  better  if  I  would — or 
could,  for  you  don't  know  what  I  have  to  fight  against, 
Maisie."  He  drew  a  chair  for  her  close  to  his  own.  "But 
then,  I'm  young  yet,"  he  pursued,  with  a  rather  sorry 
smile.  "Time  yet,  perhaps,  for  dreams.  Dreams !"  he 
repeated,  with  a  queer,  half-shamed  look,  "how  the  fel 
lows  at  the  office  would  laugh  to  hear  me  say  that! 
They'd  say  I'd  gone  bug-house." 

"Dreams?"  she  repeated  softly,  a  divine  smile  in  her 
wistful  eyes,  "why,  Micky,  we're  all  dreamers.  Be 
tween  here  and  the  store — the  store  and  here,  day  after 
day,  don't  you  suppose  they  help  me;  the  dreams? 
Doesn't  it  help  your  work — your  old  humdrum  work, 
whatever  it  is,  without  any  beginning  or  ending — 


74  THE  LASH 

doesn't  it  help  to  mix  a  little  dreaming  with  it?  Of 
course,  it  doesn't  really  help  me — I'm  a  poor,  silly  little 
thing — but  it  can  help  you,  Micky — it  can  help  you !" 

''Poor,  silly  little  thing!' "he  repeated  after  her,  his 
eyes  moistening.  "Don't,  Maisie,  it  makes  me  feel  like 
a  fool!  Why,  I'm  not  fit  to  speak  to  you,  girl!  The 
life  I've  lived — Oh,  the  road  is  where  I  belong,  after  all ! 
And  the  dreams — why,  they're  just  dreams,  that's  all. 
I'd  only  have  to  try  to  realize  them  to  prove  it — and  I'm 
afraid.  Yes,  when  I  haven't  been  drunk,  I've  been 
afraid." 

She  winced  at  the  word,  while  he,  unheeding,  stared 
gloomily  at  the  carpet.  "What — "  she  began  hesitantly, 
and  stopped.  He  looked  up,  comprehending. 

"To  write,"  he  said  simply.  "To  write  instead  of 
scribble.  Oh,  I  can  see  things — and  I  can  feel  'cm.  Seems 
to  me  that  I  could  do  it — but  it  looms  up  so  that  I  don't 
dare  try.  And  sometimes  I  get  into  the  proper  mood, 
and  get  squared  away — and  then — "  He  broke  off  with  a 
despairing  gesture. 

"I  don't  know  much  about  those  things,  of  course," 
she  said,  "but  I  like  to  read  what  I  can,  and  it  seems  to  me 
that  feelin'  like  you  do  about  it — I  mean  it's  lookin'  so  big 
to  you — that  you  ought  to  be  all  the  more  able  to  do  it." 

He  stared  at  her.  This  subtle  viewpoint  had  never 
struck  him  before.  "By  George,  it  takes  a  girl,  after  all, 
to  hit  the  nail  square,"  he  told  her.  "I  never  thought  of 
it.  But  say, — why — it's  encouraging,  it  is!" 

"Sure  it  is."  She  smiled  at  him.  "You  want  to  get 
busy." 

He  stared  wide-eyed  in  sudden  reverie,  his  eyes  wistful, 
his  freckled  face  softened  with  something  that  contrasted 


LONELINESS  75 

oddly  enough  with  his  ordinary  reckless,  devil-may-care 
attitude  toward  the  world.  His  better  side  was  upper 
most;  somehow  this  girl  could  always  summon  it.  But 
now,  as  she  watched  him  mutely,  a  swift  shadow  darkened 
his  face. 

"Yes,"  he  told  her,  "perhaps  I  ought  to  be  encouraged 
by  the  way  I  feel  about  it,  and  get  busy.  I  could  if  I  was 
built  right,  but  I'm  not,  Maisie.  I  can't  get  settled  and  I 
haven't  any  balance  wheel.  It's  'off  again,  on  again,  gone 
again'  with  me.  I  can't  get  fairly  into  a  place  before  the 
old  itch  to  keep  moving  bothers  me,  and  with  the  other, 
the  combination  keeps  me  shifting.  Why,  I  seem  to  be  a 
whole  bunch  of  fellows  mixed  up  in  a  free-for-all,  some 
times,"  he  added,  with  a  forlorn  smile.  "Other  fellows 
can  get  clown  to  a  steady  grind  and  climb ;  I  can't.  God 
knows  I  want  to,  sometimes."  He  gave  her  a  queer  look  ; 
she  did  not  seem  to  notice. 

"And  then,"  he  pursued,  "I've  never  had  a  home,  you 
know,  not  since  the  poor  little  mother  died.  Of  course, 
that  wasn't  much  of  a  home  to  look  at,  but  she  was  there, 
and  I've  never  had  one  since.  Oh,  it's  been  so  lonesome 
sometimes ;  you  don't  know.  It's  the  man  who  goes 
jumping  over  the  world  alone,  here  today  and  there  to 
morrow,  that  knows  what  lonesomeness  is.  It's  that,  I 
tell  you,  that's  raised  the  devil  with  me.  Perhaps  I'm 
wrong,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  if  it  had  been  with  me  like 
it  is  with  others  I'd  have  been  different.  I've  known 
fellows  inclined  the  same  way  as  I  am,  but  they  settled 
down  and  got  homes,  and  now — why,  they've  got  me 
beat  out  of  sight." 

"Well,"  she  queried  eagerly,  "why  don't  you — "  and 
stopped  suddenly,  her  cheeks  crimsoning,  for  Micky's 


76  THE  LASH 

disturbed  face  had  with  her  unthinking  words  grown 
suddenly  tense  with  purpose.  A  flash  of  realization  had 
revealed  to  him  his  great  need,  the  influence  to  anchor 
him  and  hold  him  fast  against  the  restless,  turbid  tide 
that  sought  to  sweep  him  away.  Why,  he  needed — her ! 
On  the  word  of  this  slip  of  a  girl  hung  his  opportunity 
for  a  new  and  better  world ;  a  world  for  two,  two  who 
might  work,  one  for  the  other, — and  climb ;  a  world  in 
which  dreams  might  come  true.  In  a  moment  it  would 
have  all  been  poured  forth  in  broken,  incoherent  phrase, 
the  sum  of  Micky's  illumining  dream  and  his  desire. 
But  the  girl,  with  the  unerring  instinct  of  her  sex,  divined 
the  situation  and  in  quick  alarm  frustrated  O'Byrn's 
intention,  though  very  gently. 

"Well,"  she  said,  smiling  at  him  brightly,  "we've  had  a 
good  talk,  haven't  we?  I'm  glad  you  told  me  about — 
everything.  I  know  you'll  win,  it's  in  you.  And  now — 
I  know  you  won't  mind — but  it's  gettin'  late,  and  I  have 
to  get  up  early,  you  know." 

So  Micky,  effectually  forestalled,  went  away  with  set 
tled  gloom  shadowing  his  freckled  face.  For  a  long  time 
after  he  had  gone  the  girl  sat  by  the  window,  the  light 
turned  low ;  young  eyes  staring  sombrely  out  upon  the 
darkened  street ;  young,  fearful  soul  oppressed  by  the 
soft  encroaching  shadow  of  the  divinest  of  life's  mysteries. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

AN    EVENING   CALL 

IT  was  early  in  the  evening  and  some  of  the  Courier's 
reportorial  staff  were  in  the  office,  waiting  for  late 
assignments.     As  often  happened  when  a  few  mo 
ments   of  leisure  allowed,   there   was  an  animated 
group  in  the  corner,  with  O'Byrn  occupying  the  center. 
The  political  situation  was  beginning  to  grow  warmer, 
so  it  naturally  followed  that  Shaughnessy  was  the  subject 
of  conversation. 

Micky  had  just  been  indulging  in  what  Dick  Glenwood 
called  one  of  his  "bursts  of  indiscriminate  philosophy." 
"This  game  of  politics,''  he  declared,  "is  getting  to  be  a 
science  in  solitaire.  It's  up  to  you  to  play  it  alone  and 
use  the  rest  of  'em  for  pawns,  if  you  want  to  win  out. 
Now,  look  at  Shaughnessy.  He  fools  his  bowers,  right 
and  left.  He  annexes  the  whole  graft.  His  gang  of 
four-flushers  think  it's  a  divvy,  but  the  boss  has  the  wad 
and  they're  gettin1  one-half  of  one  per  cent  handouts. 
What  a  graft  it  is !  I  read  in  a  paper  the  other  day  of  a 
sign  in  front  of  an  cat-joint  in  a  Western  boom  town. 
It  read: 

MEALS,    25    CENTS. 

SQUARE   MEALS,   50   CENTS. 

GORGE,    75    CENTS. 

But  Shaughnessy's  doin'  a  lot  better  than  that.     He's  get- 
tin'  gorged  without  payin'  for  it." 


78  THE  LASH 

"Where  did  he  hail  from  ?"  asked  Peters.  "Isn't  indig 
enous,  is  he?" 

"Please  remember,  Pete,"  remarked  Dick,  in  a  pained 
tone,  "that  kind  of  vocabulary  is  barred  outside  your  copy 
writing,  and  even  then  must  never  be  used  unless  you've 
lost  your  book  of  synonyms.  You  positively  must  never 
throw  verbal  lugs  into  us  like  that.  As  for  Shaughnessy, 
he  isn't  whatever  you  call  it.  He  came  here  from  the 
devil  knows  where  a  dozen  years  ago  and  annexed  Gold 
berg,  the  gentleman  that's  so  popular  with  Micky.  Mr. 
Shaughnessy  had  enjoyed  a  good  ward  training  some 
where  and  was  quick  to  catch  onto  the  possibilities  of  that 
section  of  the  town.  His  connection  with  politics  has 
always  been  of  the  quietest  nature,  but  he's  popularly  sup 
posed  to  rule  the  roost.  They  say,  too,  he's  long  on 
aspirations  and  hopes  humbly  for  the  ultimate  possession 
of  the  state." 

"Newspapers  are  dead  against  him,"  observed  Mead ; 
"at  least,  all  that  count." 

"Two  of  'em  weren't  till  lately,"  responded  Dick  dryly. 
"He  had  'em  bought,  body  and  soul,  till  they  had  a  row 
with  him  on  a  question  of  patronage  and  did  a  chameleon 
change  for  political  virtue.  He's  got  his  own  Messenger 
— good  name  for  that  organ.  He's  the  owner  of  that 
sheet,  though  he  doesn't  figure  in  the  firm  name.  There's 
the  Courier,  of  course,  and  our  rival  over  the  way  must 
have  fought  him  from  the  first,  but  the  good  in  this  city 
mostly  died  young,  I  guess." 

"  Tisn't  that,"  put  in  Micky,  from  the  midst  of  a 
placid  cloud  of  cigar  smoke.  "There's  enough  of  the 
decent  element  in  this  place  to  shelve  Shaughnessy,  if 
you  could  rouse  it.  But  it's  doing  a  Rip  Van  Winkle 


AN  EVENING  CALL  79 

that  it's  going  to  take  a  big  gob  of  dynamite  to  jar  it  out 
of.  Some  day  that  will  happen,  and  the  decent  element 
will  be  on  top  for  a  year  or  two.  Then  it  will  fall  asleep 
at  the  switch  and  do  another  century,  \vhile  the  gang 
rings  in  again.  Oh,  it'll  happen,  for  a  little  while,  the 
reform  stunt.  It  always  does.  But  it  won't  last  long, 
and  then  it's  the  gang  that  we  have  always  with  us.  Boss 
rule?  It's  explained  easily  enough.  Your  decent  ele 
ment  is  troubled  with  trances ;  the  gang's  got  insomnia." 

"So  you  think  Shaugnessy  '11  get  what's  coming  to  him 
some  day  ?"  mused  Dick.  "Where's  your  dynamite  ?" 

"Right  here!"  asserted  O'Byrn,  bracing  in  his  chair 
and  vigorously  banging  his  desk.  "Here  or  in  some  other 
good  newspaper  office  in  this  town.  Do  you  know  the 
reason  of  Shaughnessy's  success  here?  It's  because  he 
never  shows  his  hand.  He's  a  gilt-edged  daisy,  that  fel 
low.  If  he  had  been  doing  his  business  in  the  open  they'd 
have  had  him  behind  bars  long  ago.  But  he's  doing 
his  directing  from  the  wings.  You  and  I  know  that  if 
we  pick  out  a  reputable  man,  hap-hazard,  from  the  decent 
element  we've  been  speaking  of,  and  begin  talking  to  him 
of  Shaughnessy,  he'll  laugh  and  chase  up  the  street,  say 
ing  that  the  papers  have  Shaughnessy  on  the  brain.  It's 
a  fact  that  a  lot  of  people  don't  look  on  that  Irish  scoun 
drel  as  anything  more  than  a  cheap  ward  boss,  with  little 
influence  in  the  city  at  large.  There's  reason  enough  for 
the  view.  The  newspapers  have  poured  out  columns  of 
abuse  of  Shaughnessy  in  the  past  few  years,  but  sum  it 
all  up  and  it's  composed  wholly  of  vague  generalities. 
They've  never  brought  anything  home  to  him  that  was 
worth  the  bringing,  never  a  thing  that  would  jug  him  for 
a  minute.  The  average  voter  here  holds  him  too  cheap. 


8o  THE  LASH 

That  fact,  coupled  with  the  natural  majority  he  controls, 
always  tips  his  scales  right.  Tell  your  voter-at-large  that 
it  was  Shaughnessy  who  engineered  the  queer,  rotten 
deals  that  have  figured  in  this  town — yes,  and  the  legisla 
ture, — deals  whose  parentage  they  can't  trace,  and  the 
voter  would  give  you  the  laugh." 

"He'd  have  a  right  to,"  commented  Kirk.  "Go  slow, 
Micky.  Shaughnessy's  a  good  organizer,  and  maybe  he's 
put  some  cheap  ones  through,  but  he's  limited." 

"So  is  the  flyer,"  retorted  Micky,  "but  it'll  jerk  you 
along  some.  Don't  you  foolish  yourself  about  that  mick, 
Andy.  He's  a  deep  one.  He's  got  a  side  to  him  that's 
working  overtime.  It's  an  underground  system,  and  any 
lucky  guy  in  this  business  that  tumbles  into  it  will  see 
things  that'll  fill  his  paper  next  day  with  facts,  not  sur 
mises,  facts  that'll  set  'em  all  gapin'.  That's  the  dynamite 
that'll  explode  some  day  and  it'll  blow  Shaughnessy  into 
stripes  and  behind  the  bars.  Of  course,  there'll  be  a  new 
boss  after  a  while,  but  it  won't  be  Shaughnessy." 

The  city  editor  summoned  them  just  then  and  the  con 
ference  was  abruptly  terminated.  Soon  afterward  Micky 
and  Dick  descended  together  in  the  elevator  and  walked 
up  the  avenue  toward  the  point  where  their  paths  sep 
arated.  They  were  still  talking  of  Shaughnessy. 

"He's  an  odd  genius,"  Dick  was  saying,  "and  I  think 
you  have  sized  him  up  about  right.  I've  studied  him  more 
or  less,  and  I  gave  him  credit  from  the  first  of  having  a 
lot  more  under  his  hat  than  a  good  many  think  he  has. 
He  strikes  me  as  a  sort  of  a  cross  between  a  hyena  and  a 
bulldog.  From  his  start  here  he's  never  let  go — and 
there's  the  stench  about  him  of  a  political  charnel  house. 
After  he  got  his  start,  everything  that  would  be  likely  to 


AN  EVENING  CALL  81 

hamper  him  went  by  the  board.  You  know  he  runs  a 
wholesale  liquor  house.  It  used  to  be  a  little  saloon  when 
he  first  struck  here,  and  they  tell  me  he  used  to  drink  up 
most  of  his  stock  himself.  Very  secretive  fellow,  nobody 
knew  anything  about  him.  Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  "he  got 
started  on  his  career.  Alderman  at  first,  I  believe,  but 
wasn't  in  public  life  long,  didn't  need  to  be.  He's  a 
wonder.  They  tell  me  that  from  the  time  of  his  first  can 
vass  for  office  he  cut  out  the  booze  and  doesn't  touch  it 
at  all.  Wiped  out  his  own  handicap.  Well,  you  see 
what  he's  done ;  he's  well  fixed.  They  all  know  it's 
there,  but  they  can't  prove  where  he  got  it.  And  say, 
speak  of  the  devil — there  he  is  now." 

Shaughnessy  passed  them,  with  a  slight  nod  of  recog 
nition  to  Glenwood.  His  face  gleamed  ghastly  under  the 
Mood  of  electric  light,  there  were  blue  shadows  under  his 
black  eyes.  While  he  walked  briskly  enough,  his  face,  in 
addition  to  its  usual  lack  of  animation,  held  utter  weari 
ness. 

"Looks  bad,  doesn't  he?"  remarked  Dick,  as  they 
separated  on  the  corner.  "Something  must  be  the  matter 
with  him.  Looks  to  be  all  in." 

"No,"  grinned  Micky  ;  "it  just  makes  him  thin  every 
campaign  figuring  to  keep  his  job."  Then  he  added  tin- 
smilingly,  "He  makes  me  feel  as  tired  as  he  looks,  Dick. 
I  don't  know  what  it  is,  but  there's  something  about  that 
geezer  that  makes  a  fellow  feel  like  crape  on  the  knob." 

A  little  later,  seated  in  the  library  of  his  handsome 
residence  on  Morley  Street,  Colonel  John  Westlake  heard 
his  door  bell  ringing  and  was  manifestly  apprehensive. 
The  closed  oak  desk  in  the  corner,  the  sight  of  the 
Colonel  stretched  contentedly  in  his  easy  chair,  a  fragrant 


82  THE  LASH 

cigar  between  his  lips  and  a  favorite  book  in  his  hand, 
indicated  a  quiet,  enjoyable  evening  which  the  gentle 
man  regretted  to  have  disturbed.  So  it  was  with  sup 
pressed  irritation  that  the  Colonel  looked  up,  warned 
by  the  rustle  of  feminine  skirts,  to  find  the  maid  standing 
in  the  doorway. 

"A  gentleman  to  see  you,  sir,"  said  she.  "He  didn't 
give  any  card.  He  said  to  tell  you  that  Mr.  Shaughnessy 
wanted  to  see  yon  a  minute." 

The  Colonel's  smile  was  grimly  questioning,  while  he 
reflectively  stroked  his  sandy  beard,  which  was  faintly 
streaked  with  gray.  Then  he  cogitated  for  a  moment, 
while  he  abandoned  his  whiskers  for  a  small,  round  bald 
spot  on  his  crown,  which  he  thoughtfully  rubbed. 
"Well,"  said  he  finally,  "show  him  in,  Mary." 

Left  to  himself  the  Colonel  took  a  couple  of  long 
thoughtful  puffs  at  his  cigar,  while  he  chuckled  audibly. 
The  look  of  irritation  had  vanished ;  it  had  given  place 
to  one  of  piqued  and  peppery  curiosity. 

The  look  with  which  Colonel  Westlake  greeted  his 
visitor,  as  the  boss  entered  the  library,  was  one  of  eager 
aggressiveness.  The  Colonel  was  a  fighter  and  a  gallant 
one ;  he  itched  for  any  fray  that  would  allow  him  to 
glory  in  honorable  combat,  for  it  was  always  honorable 
on  his  side.  His  eyes  were  blue  and  stormy,  but  they 
always  looked  straight  at  you  and  the  fire  of  awakened 
antagonism  in  them  had  often  caused  the  dishonorable 
to  quail.  But  at  this  particular  moment,  the  black, 
sinister  eyes  of  Shaughnessy,  the  unbidden,  sullenly  im 
passive  as  an  Indian's,  stared  straight  into  the  sharp, 
challenging  ones  of  the  Colonel  without  a  sign  of  waver 
ing,  and  the  even,  expressionless  voice  of  Shaughnessy 


AN  EVENING  CALL  83 

anticipated  any  words  of  dubious  welcome  the  Colonel 
might  have  spoken. 

"You  need  not  ask  regarding  the  occasion  for  the  honor 
of  my  visit,  Colonel,"  he  said,  as  his  host  rose,  "for 
I  know  well  enough  that  you  do  not  regard  it  as  an 
honor."  He  smiled  sardonically. 

The  Colonel  smiled  also,  quite  broadly.  This  was  not 
so  bad.  "You  are  quite  right,  Mr.  Shaughnessy,"  he 
acknowledged.  "I  know  you  well  enough  to  know  that 
you're  here  on  business.  Well,  take  a  chair  and  state 
it."  There  was  an  underlying  something  in  the  Colonel's 
tone,  a  peremptory  note  that  spelled,  "Be  brief  as  pos 
sible  and  get  out." 

It  failed  to  disturb  the  nonchalance  of  Shaughnessy. 
lie  leisurely  seated  himself  in  a  chair  opposite  that 
of  the  Colonel,  the  large  oak  table  being  between  them. 
Then,  with  half-closed  eyes  dreamily  searching  the  ceil 
ing,  he  proceeded  to  apparently  forget  his  host's  presence 
in  a  sudden  fit  of  abstraction  which  was,  under  the  cir 
cumstances,  superb. 

The  Colonel  waited  a  moment,  his  choler  rising  per 
ceptibly.  "Well,  sir?"  he  finally  queried,  and  there  was 
menace  in  his  tone. 

Shaughnessy  lazily  lowered  his  eyes  till  they  rested 
level  with  those  of  his  host.  The  Colonel  thought  in 
stinctively,  as  he  gazed  into  them,  of  the  fixed  beady  stare 
of  a  serpent. 

"You  are  at  present  the  principal  owner  of  the  Courier, 
having  purchased  the  controlling  interest  early  the  past 
summer,  aren't  you,  Colonel?"  asked  Shaughnessy. 

"Most  certainly.    What  of  it?" 

"You  are  not  at  present  in  favor  of  taking  a  contract 


84  THE  LASH 

for  any  or  all  of  the  official  city  printing?"  pursued 
Shaughnessy. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  demanded  the  Colonel,  his  gorge 
rising.  "You  have  had  my  answer — ' 

"Wait  a  moment,"  interrupted  the  boss,  raising  a 
deprecating  thin  hand.  "Let's  get  at  this  logically.  Keep 
cool,  Colonel.  And  now,  another  thing.  Do  I  under 
stand  that  you  intend  to  pound  what  you  are  pleased 
to  call  my  machine  during  the  present  campaign?" 

The  Colonel's  eyes  lighted  up  with  the  battle  fire,  but 
his  voice  was  mellow  with  an  ominous  softness  as  he 
answered,  "Pound  you?  As  hard  as  God  will  let  me, 
my  dear  sir.  Yes,  you  bet  your  life!" 

"Well,  now,  let's  see  about  that,"  pursued  Shaugh 
nessy,  his  voice  as  soft  and  menacing  as  the  other's.  "I'm 
told  by  a  friend  of  mine,  Colonel,  that  you're  a  heavy 
holder  of  this  Consolidated  Gas  that  is  arousing  so  much 
speculation  just  now."  His  voice  had  grown  insolent. 
His  face  remained  impassive,  but  his  eyes,  beginning  to 
burn  with  evil  exultation,  searched  the  Colonel's  own. 

For  his  part,  the  host  leaned  forward,  his  elbows  on 
the  table,  and  stared  straight  across  at  Shaughnessy. 
"Well,"  he  inquired,  still  softly,  "what  if  I  am,  eh?" 

"Well,  if  you  are,"  retorted  Shaughnessy,  also  lean 
ing  forward,  his  lips  set  cruelly  under  his  small  black 
moustache,  "if  you  are — not  to  please  me,  for  I'm  get 
ting  out  of  the  small  share  I've  had  in  local  politics, 
but  for  your  own  good — don't  you  think  you'd  better  re 
consider  that  city  printing  matter?" 

"And  if  I  should,"  suggested  the  Colonel,  his  tone  even 
quieter,  "why,  you'd  expect  the  Courier — of  course — 

Shaughnessy  leaned  back  with  a  cynical,  assured  smile. 


AN  EVENING  CALL  85 

His  tone  was  now  arrogant.  "The  Courier,"  he  sneered, 
"why,  of  course,  the  Courier  will  get  in  line." 

Colonel  Westlake  looked  away  for  a  moment.  "Yes, 
the  Courier  will  get  in  line,"  he  murmured.  He  slowly 
removed  his  still  lighted  cigar  from  his  mouth  and  placed 
it  carefully  on  the  corner  of  the  table.  Shaughnessy 
silently  exulted  with  evil  eyes,  which  then  again  indiffer 
ently,  dreamily,  sought  the  ceiling. 

"The  Courier  will  get  in  line!"  There  was  a  dif 
ference  in  the  tone,  a  ringing  note  which  in  a  flash 
recalled  Shaughnessy 's  wandering  gaze.  He  found  the 
Colonel  standing  opposite  him,  his  hands  grasping  the 
edge  of  the  table,  his  face  crimson  with  rage.  "You 
hound  !"  growled  the  Colonel,  "you  crawling  snake !  I've 
drawn  you  out ;  I  only  wish  it  was  far  enough  for  me 
to  get  my  heel  on  you.  But  I'll  do  it  yet.  The  Courier 
will  get  in  line,  you  leper,  don't  you  doubt  it,  but  it  will 
be  to  crush  you  and  your  dirty  brood,  for  the  forces 
of  decency  are  going  to  stamp  you  out  this  November 
as  sure  as  there's  a  God  in  heaven!  We've  got  to  dig 
to  do  it,  thanks  to  your  devilish  ingenuity,  but  it'll  be 
done.  The  Citizens'  Fusion  ticket,  with  an  honest  man 
at  the  head,  is  going  through,  and  your  ward  heeler  list 
will  be  wiped  out  at  the  polls,  mark  me.  We're  going 
to  clean  this  cesspool,  but  we'll  drown  you  in  it  first! 
And  now  let  me  tell  you  just  how  much  of  a  cursed 
fool  you  made  of  yourself  just  now  in  trying  to  intimidate 
me.  Your  solicitous  friend  didn't  pry  long  enough,  it 
seems.  I  was  the  holder  of  a  big  block  of  Consolidated 
Gas  for  just  three  days,  solely  through  the  blunder  of  an 
agent.  It's  an  infamous  thing,  which  nobody  should 
know  better  than  yourself,  and  if  vour  sneaking  lieutenant 


86  THE  LASH 

had  been  worth  his  salt,  he'd  have  found  tliat  I  haven't 
had  a  dollar  in  that  highway  robbery  combine  for  four 
months ;  that  I  was  not  personally  responsible  for  being 
in  it  in  the  first  place,  and  that  I  was  at  pains  to  get 
out  of  it  at  the  expense  of  a  personal  loss  the  moment  I 
learned  of  it.  Moreover,  I  suspect  that  it  was  a  cunning 
plan  made  months  ago  to  compromise  me  in  the  belief 
that  the  love  of  revenue  would  keep  me  in  it  and  allow 
interests  of  which  you  well  know,  you  scoundrel,  to  get 
control  of  me.  It's  worked  with  others,  but  I'm  not 
built  that  way.  [You've  shown  your  hand  for  nothing, 
and  if  your  heeler  had  been  possessed  of  a  penny's  worth 
of  brains,  he'd  have  found  out  about  things  and  saved 
you  unnecessary  trouble.  Let  me  assure  you  that  the 
Courier  will  put  in  double  time  to  smash  you,  Shaugh- 
nessy,  and  now  I  will  ask  you  to  leave  before  you  are  put 
out." 

The  Colonel  ceased,  his  hands  trembling  with  rage, 
his  blazing  eyes  fixed  on  Shaughncssy,  who  had  sat 
with  averted  face  and  without  a  word  during  Westlake's 
fiery  denunciation.  Now  he  rose,  ever  so  leisurely,  and 
turned  slowly,  facing  the  owner  of  the  Courier.  The 
white  face  was  unruffled  by  any  trace  of  emotion,  the 
black,  sinister  eyes  stared  unwaveringly  as  a  reptile's 
into  the  Colonel's  fiery  blue  ones.  Shaughnessy  fumbled 
in  an  upper  pocket  of  his  vest. 

"Pardon,  Colonel,  have  you  a  match?"  he  inquired. 
His  voice  had  all  the  serenity  of  a  mild  June  day.  The 
dazed  Westlake  mechanically  produced  one.  Shaugh 
nessy  lazily  lighted  a  cigar  and  sauntered  out. 


CHAPTER  IX 

NOT  ON  THE  PROGRAMME 

IN  a  few  days  occurred  the  Citizens'  convention.  A 
formidable  array  of  men  was  there ;  business  and 
professional  men,  leaders  in  the  city's  activities.  It 
was  an  array  which  might  well  set  the  forces  that 
controlled  the  city  government  to  worrying.  Moreover, 
real  enthusiasm  ruled  the  assemblage,  and  when  Colonel 
Westlake,  in  a  fiery  nominating  speech,  named  Theodore 
Packard,  one  of  the  city's  leading  merchants,  for  the 
mayoralty,  thunderous  demonstrations  attested  the  temper 
of  the  delegates. 

Under  the  aggressive  leadership  of  Colonel  West- 
lake,  the  Fusionists  had  taken  time  by  the  forelock  and 
were  first  in  the  field  with  a  strong  ticket.  Warm  hopes 
were  entertained  for  it  this  year.  Republicans,  who  were 
greatly  in  the  minority  in  the  city,  had  taken  the  initiative 
in  starting  the  Fusion  movement,  which  was  strengthened 
by  the  open  avowal  of  some  of  the  community's  best 
known  men,  of  Democratic  allegiance,  that  they  were 
done  with  Shaughnessy  and  his  methods.  The  move 
ment  appeared  to  be  gaining  in  force  and  bulk,  like  a 
snowball  rolling  down  hill,  as  the  hour  approached  for 
the  Democratic  convention,  toward  which  all  eyes  were 
now  turning. 

There  were   indications   that  the  entrenched,  corrupt 


88  THE  LASH 

forces  which  dominated  the  city  were  getting  ready  to 
invite  their  own  destruction.  Was  it  not  Shanghnessy 
who  held  the  whip  hand,  and  was  not  Shaughnessy  go 
ing  crazy?  Verily,  it  seemed  so,  and  Shaughnessy,  ap 
parently  drunk  with  the  power  invested  in  his  acquired 
authority,  seemed  likely  to  exercise  it  to  his  own  de 
struction.  "The  man  is  mad,"  remarked  the  leaders  of 
the  Citizens'  movement,  one  to  the  other,  and  rubbed 
their  hands.  For  Shaughnessy's  candidate  for  the  nomi 
nation,  the  man  for  whom,  as  he  calmly  stated,  the  con 
vention  would,  at  his  word,  vote  as  one  man,  was  so 
notoriously  inadequate,  so  miserably  unfit,  that  the  pros 
pect  of  his  nomination  set  a  resentful  growl  to  circulating 
even  among  many  of  the  chosen  delegates  to  the  Demo 
cratic,  otherwise  the  Shaughnessy,  convention.  Dare 
Shaughnessy,  so  cocksure  of  his  evil  hold  upon  the  city, 
thrust  such  a  candidate  upon  his  party?  Certain  of 
Shaughnessy's  supporters  grumbled,  while  the  leaders 
of  the  Citizens'  movement  ground  their  teeth  and  fig 
uratively  removed  their  coats. 

True  to  his  promise  to  Shaughnessy,  on  the  occasion 
of  that  worthy's  call  upon  the  owner  of  the  Courier, 
Colonel  Westlake's  paper  was  firing  hot  shot  at  the 
local  boss.  The  effrontery  and  callous  indifference  to 
all  considerations,  save  his  own  sweet  will,  which  Shaugh 
nessy  was  displaying  in  his  choice  of  a  candidate  for  the 
mayoralty,  was  dished  up  daily,  in  attractive  and  tooth 
some  guise,  for  the  Courier's  readers.  Westlake  was 
certainly  pounding  Shaughnessy. 

Meanwhile,  strange  whispers  began  circulating  around 
the  town,  things  that  savored  of  disloyalty  to  Shaugh 
nessy.  The  unpopularity  of  the  candidate,  whose  for- 


NOT  ON  THE  PROGRAMME  89 

tunes  he  had  espoused,  was  evidently  breeding  a  revolt 
among  Shaughnessy's  followers,  of  which  he  seemed 
strangely  oblivious.  At  all  events,  he  was  wholly  in 
different  to  it.  To  add  seriousness  to  the  situation,  some 
of  the  boss'  most  trusted  lieutenants  had  been  heard  to 
utter  words  that  sounded  strangely  from  the  lips  of 
faithful  followers.  These  little  seeds  of  dissension  were 
sown  cautiously,  but  they  fell  where  they  seemed  sure 
to  bring  forth  the  fruit  of  contention.  When  ex-Alder 
man  Goldberg,  supposed  to  be  retired  from  politics,  the 
lanky  Dick  Peterson,  and  the  moon-faced  Willie  Shute, 
men  known  to  have  been  for  years  identified  with  Shaugh- 
nessy's  interests,  began  treacherously  knifing  him,  the 
Fusionists  pricked  up  their  ears  and  polished  their  eye 
glasses.  Might  there  not  be  a  disastrous  factional 
Democratic  fight? 

The  day  before  the  convention  occurred  there  was  a 
tense,  growing  expectancy  through  the  city,  a  vague, 
intangible  premonition  of  an  unguessed  something 
on  the  morrow.  What  is  was  to  be  nobody  knew,  but 
that  there  was  a  rift  in  the  Shaughnessy  lute, — or  "loot," 
as  one  Fusionist  wag  expressed  it, — was  now  plainly 
apparent  to  all  parties.  The  existence  of  a  plot  against 
him  was  recognized,  yet  Shaughnessy  made  no  sign.  His 
insolent  programme  was  known ;  he  proposed  on  the 
morrow  to  thrust  his  preposterously  unfit  candidate  for 
the  mayoralty,  together  with  a  few  other  objectionable 
nominees  for  divers  offices,  down  the  throat  of  the 
convention.  The  programme  of  the  opposition  was  not 
known,  but  Goldberg,  Peterson  and  Shute,  with  others 
whose  fidelity  to  the  interests  of  the  boss  had  hitherto 
been  unquestioned,  had  been  busy.  They  had  toward 


90  THE  LASH 

the  end  thrown  off  the  pretense  of  secrecy  and  had  de 
clared  the  boss'  programme  to  be  suicidal  to  the  chances 
of  Democratic  success.  The  array  of  malcontents  grew 
larger  and  more  formidable.  It  was  increased  by  the 
well  circulated  report  that  Goldberg  had  tried  to  re 
monstrate  with  the  boss  and  been  freezingly  turned 
down. 

"The  delegates  won't  stand  for  it,  Shaughnessy,"  Gold 
berg  had  said.  "It's  out  of  all  reason/' 

The  sneer  in  Shaughnessy 's  reply  had  inflamed  an 
army  of  hitherto  faithful  adherents  against  him.  "The 
delegates  will  do  as  I  dictate,"  he  had  said.  "This  con 
vention,  let  me  tell  you,  will  name  my  ticket,  and  the 
kickers  will  be  kicked  out  of  the  party." 

Surely  Shaughnessy  was  going  mad.  "I  understand 
he  said  lately  that  he  didn't  intend  to  figure  in  local 
politics  much  longer,"  said  Colonel  Westlake  one  day 
to  the  Fusionist  candidate  for  the  mayoralty,  Theodore 
Packard,  though  without  apprising  him  of  the  circum 
stances  under  which  the  boss  made  that  statement.  "Well, 
do  you  know,  I  begin  to  believe  this  dissension  in  their 
ranks  has  been  brewing  for  some  time.  'When  thieves 
fall  out,'  you  know.  I  think  he  foresaw  this  scrap  and 
is  risking  the  issue  on  a  last  desperate  game,  which  he 
is  growing  rather  afraid  of  losing." 

"Yes,  but  why  is  he  espousing  such  a  notorious  ticket?" 
inquired  Packard.  "It  seems  to  me  that  he  is  beaten 
in  advance,  with  a  handicap  like  that,  and  ought  to  have 
sense  enough  to  know  it." 

"He  probably  had  his  programme  laid  out  months 
ago,"  replied  the  Colonel,  "when  he  felt  more  secure  than 
he  does  now.  His  opponents  are  cunning.  They  played 


NOT  ON  THE  PROGRAMME  91 

foxy  Judas  till  the  last  moment,  and  then  they  began 
to  knife  him.  It's  a  slick  game.  He  can't  back  down 
now,  he's  got  to  stand  by  his  guns.  To  knuckle  would 
be  a  confession  of  weakness,  and  that  would  be  fatal.  It 
looks  to  me  as  if  he  had  a  Waterloo  coming  in  his  own 
camp.  They've  got  something  up  their  sleeve,  depend 
upon  it.  I  wish  I  knew  what  it  was." 

Decidedly,  the  ordinary  expressionless  face  of  Shaugh- 
nessy,  could  he  have  heard  this  conversation,  would  have 
been  worth  seeing. 

The  momentous  autumn  day,  peaceful  and  delightful, 
was  in  strong  contrast  to  the  turbulent  scene  within  the 
hall,  just  before  the  Democratic  convention  was  called 
to  order.  The  galleries  were  packed  with  a  nervous 
crowd,  ripe  for  anticipated  excitement.  That  some 
thing  big,  not  on  the  card,  was  about  to  happen,  every 
one  was  confident.  And  once  and  again  the  eyes  of 
the  massed,  fitful  throng  of  spectators  searched  out 
Shaughnessy,  standing  unobtrusively  in  a  corner  of  the 
great  hall,  always  surrounded  by  excited,  gesticulating 
delegates.  Shaughnessy  was  evidently  saying  little  and 
his  dead  black  eyes  and  ghastly  face  expressed  less.  Yet 
the  thousands  of  eyes  turned  hungrily  to  him  again  and 
again,  for  the  impression  had  gone  forth  that  in  some 
way  the  mute,  mysterious  boss  was  to  be  offered  as  a 
sacrifice,  to  the  ends  of  treacherous  associates,  on  the 
altar  of  his  own  unscrupulous  ambition. 

Micky  O'Byrn,  of  the  Courier,  detailed  to  do  the  de 
scriptive  touches  of  the  convention,  viewed  Shaughnessy 
curiously  from  his  position  at  the  rear  of  the  hall.  "He 
looks  like  his  own  funeral,"  thought  Micky,  "but  then, 
that's  chronic  with  him."  His  gaze  wandered  interest- 


92  THE  LASH 

eclly  over  the  mass  of  excited  delegates  swarming  about 
the  floor ;  his  ears  sought  instinctively  to  gather  some 
thing  definite  from  the  swelling  babel  of  speech.  Sud 
denly  a  low-toned  voice  sounded  at  his  elbow  in  a  com 
munication  evidently  intended  for  a  single  ear,  and  that 
not  Micky's.  O'Byrn's  rapid  sidelong  glance  verified  his 
supposition.  It  was  Goldberg,  speaking  softly  to  a  dele 
gate. 

"Tom  Grady,  he'll  do  the  trick,"  said  Goldberg,  and 
the  two  moved  away.  Micky  whistled  softly.  "Good 
move !"  he  remarked  quietly  to  himself.  "He'll  take  'em 
by  storm."  For  it  was  evident  that  it  was  Tom  Grady, 
the  city's  youngest  and  most  fiery  Democratic  orator, 
who  was  to  nominate  the  opponent  to  Shaughnessy's 
man.  But  who  was  this  opponent?  Micky  wrinkled  his 
brows,  and,  like  the  crowd  in  the  galleries  and  many 
of  the  delegates  themselves,  fell  to  speculating,  for  the 
extraordinary  thing  about  the  situation  was  that  while 
everybody  was  sure  an  opponent  would  be  produced,  no 
body  knew  who  he  would  be. 

But  now  the  convention  was  rapped  to  order,  and  dele 
gates  and  audience  alike  fell  into  uneasy  silence.  The 
roll  was  called,  the  credentials  were  handed  in,  and  in 
due  time  the  temporary  chairman  retired  in  favor  of  the 
permanent  incumbent.  His  selection  had  been  railroaded 
through  before  it  dawned  upon  the  gathering  that  he 
was  one  of  Shaughnessy's  strongest  adherents.  So  the 
boss  had  scored  one.  Dave  Mulhill  could  be  relied  upon 
to  look  after  him. 

With  the  chair's  call  for  nominations  the  excitement 
increased.  It  had  rather  been  expected  that,  at  this 
critical  point  of  his  political  fortunes,  Shaughnessy  would 


NOT  ON  THE  PROGRAMME  93 

decide  to  speak  for  himself,  though  he  had  never  done 
so.  He  did  not,  however,  and  his  man,  Dennis  Burns, 
was  placed  in  nomination  by  Charles  Heferman,  a  young 
lawyer  who  had  of  late  dulled  a  formerly  bright  reputa 
tion  by  known  dealings  with  the  gang  that  ruled  the  city. 
Heferman's  effort  was  able,  though  no  enthusiasm  was 
evident.  No  one  could  have  grown  enthusiastic  over 
Shaughnessy's  candidate. 

Heferman  finished  and  sat  down,  amid  a  ripple  of  per 
functory  applause  that  boded  ill  for  the  boss'  prospects. 
At  that  moment  Micky  O'Byrn  chanced  to  be  looking 
across  the  hall  straight  at  Shaughnessy.  The  sinister 
face  was  unmoved,  but  the  black  eyes,  momentarily 
alight  with  unwonted  fire,  were  fixed  intently  at  a  point 
about  midway  of  the  hall.  In  that  instant  Micky's  keen 
vision  beheld  something  that  acted  upon  his  intelligence 
like  a  galvanic  battery,  swiftly  launching  his  wits  upon 
previously  unguessed  channels  of  absorbing  and  profitable 
speculation. 

"Next  in  order,  nominations  of  President  of  the  Coun 
cil,"  announced  Dave  Mulhill  from  the  chair,  even  be 
fore  the  faint  applause  which  had  greeted  Heferman's 
speech  had  died  away.  The  chairman's  words  produced 
an  angry  hubbub,  and  his  evident  reluctance  to  recognize 
a  gentleman  who  was  on  his  feet,  demanding  attention, 
had  the  effect  of  fanning  the  latent  antagonism  against 
the  machine  to  a  brighter  blaze.  Not  until  sundry 
groans  and  cries  of  "Gag !"  and  "Fair  play !"  were  heard 
did  Chairman  Mulhill  deign  to  recognize  Hon.  Thomas 
Grady,  now  known  to  all  as  the  spokesman  of  the  oppo 
sition. 

Intense    silence   prevailed   as    Mr.    Grady,    recognized 


94  THE  LASH 

already  as  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  legislature,  was 
reluctantly  accorded  the  privilege  of  the  floor.  A  silver 
tongue  he  had  indeed,  and  a  voice  like  the  mellow,  dulcet 
notes  of  an  organ.  Over  six  feet  in  height  and  with 
the  bulk  and  carriage  of  a  Viking,  his  handsome  face 
flushed  and  his  blue  eyes  alight  with  battle,  he  was  a 
figure  to  command  admiration.  Added  to  these  a  splen 
did  gift  of  oratory,  the  whole  produced  a  combination 
of  magnetic  charm  which  they  used  to  say  was  fairly  hyp 
notizing  to  an  audience. 

The  howl  of  delight  with  which  the  assemblage  re 
ceived  the  ironical  acknowledgment  of  the  speaker  to 
the  chairman,  for  the  privilege  of  the  floor,  indicated 
its  temper  toward  Shatighnessy.  The  words  of  the 
orator  flowed  on,  gathering  fire  as  he  warmed  to  the 
subject  of  the  hopes  and  prospects  of  the  city  Democracy. 
He  warned  them  that  it  was  a  critical  moment,  that  the 
Fusionists  had  nominated  a  strong  ticket.  "It  is  one  that 
we  must  reckon  with,"  he  declared.  "You  and  I,  secure 
in  the  knowledge  of  the  good  our  party  has  done  our 
beloved  municipality,  will  utterly  disclaim  the  necessity 
for  this  absurdly  mistaken  movement  on  the  part  of  our 
friends,  the  visionary  enemy.  But  even  if  that  enemy 
be  composed  of  so  many  wild-eyed  Don  Quixotes, 
mounted  on  their  hobbies  and  fighting  windmills,  yet, 
friends,  the  issue,  however  ridiculous,  is  here."  He 
turned  and  looked  straight  at  Shaughnessy.  "Gentlemen, 
it  is  as  yet  unmet.  This  is  not  a  moment  for  any  false 
and  perhaps  fatal  step.  We  o\ve  it  to  ourselves  to  meet 
the  enemy  with  a  front  that  shall  be  utterly  unassailable 
to  his  assaults." 

Pausing  imperturbably  till  the  resultant  applause  had 


NOT  ON  THE  PROGRAMME  95 

died  away,  the  orator  proceeded,  in  glowing  periods,  to 
discourse  of  the  sovereignty  of  the  people,  of  their  right 
to  choose  their  leaders,  of  the  moment  which  had  now 
arrived  to  reaffirm  their  convictions  and  pursue  the 
highest  of  party  ideals.  While  the  address  continued 
some  clever,  covert  digs  at  Shaughnessy,  the  speaker, 
after  the  manner  of  his  suave  tribe,  avoided  the  quagmires 
of  ugly  suspicions  and  half-guessed  corruption  that  had 
characterized  his  party's  administration  of  affairs  during 
recent  years.  With  consummate  tact  he  rather  confined 
himself  to  broad  generalities  that  fired  the  blood  of  his 
auditors  and  did  not  remind  them  of  things  that  would 
chill  enthusiasm.  Mr.  Grady  urged  them  only  to  take 
the  right  step  in  time,  to  meet  strength  with  strength, — 
this  with  another  challenging  look  at  Shaughnessy, — 
to  enter  the  battle  equipped  for  victory  rather  than  de 
feat. 

Now  he  was  approaching  the  end  of  his  discourse  and 
had  not  named  his  candidate.  They  had  hung  upon  every 
word,  had  drunk  in  the  golden  sentences  that  thrilled, 
that  satisfied,  yet  did  not  reveal  the  name  of  the  myste 
rious  champion  whose  candidacy  the  orator  was  advocat 
ing.  As  he  swung  into  his  peroration,  the  piqued  curi 
osity  of  the  people  had  become  almost  pain.  They  were 
ripe  for  a  shrieking  chaos  of  enthusiasm,  and  he  knew 
it.  So,  with  gathered  forces,  with  flashing  eyes  and  voice 
that  rang  like  a  trumpet,  he  figuratively  fired  the  powder 
train. 

"And  now,"  he  cried,  "you  are  awaiting  the  announce 
ment  of  the  man  whose  name  among  men  is  one  to  con 
jure  with;  the  man,  strong,  able  and  of  good  repute, 
the  man  who  is  no  man's  man — "  with  a  defiant  gesture 


96  THE  LASH 

toward  Shaughnessy  that  awakened  tremendous  en 
thusiasm, — "the  man  whose  nomination  here  today  means 
victory.  Gentlemen,  it  is  with  pleasure  that  I  nominate 
for  the  mayoralty  of  this  city  a  man  known  to  you  all 
for  years,  for  years  the  trusted,  honored  servant  of  our 
people ;  a  man  of  achievement,  of  renown,  of  probity,  of 
independence,  of  superb  ability ;  a  man  who,  under  God, 
will  rule  for  righteousness'  sake  and  wear  no  man's  col 
lar;  in  a  word,  that  distinguished  jurist  and  gentleman, 
Judge  Rufus  Atwell  Boynton !" 

A  roar  like  many  waters  followed,  a  roar  like  thunder 
ous,  storm-driven  breakers  upon  a  lonely  beach,  a  roar  of 
exultation.  Lulling  for  a  moment,  the  deafening  din 
broke  out  afresh,  again  and  again,  as  if  it  would  never 
cease.  Men  cheered  till  they  could  no  longer  cheer,  but 
squawked  like  chickens ;  standing  with  empurpled  faces, 
brandishing  their  arms,  cackling  strangely,  with  ludicrous 
effort  and  with  distended,  bloodshot  eyes.  The  gavel 
fell  in  vain ;  only  a  cannonade  could  have  been  heard  in 
that  babel  of  sound.  As  soon  as  the  noise  abated,  through 
sheer  force  of  physical  exhaustion,  a  vote  was  railroaded 
through,  the  hostile  chairman  being  helpless  before  the 
fierce  faces  and  voices  of  this  mob,  for  such  it  had  be 
come  under  the  electrifying  lash  of  Grady's  words.  Judge 
Boynton  was  nominated  by  an  overwhelming  majority, 
even  drawing  from  the  forces  pledged  to  the  fortunes 
of  the  Shaughnessy  candidate.  The  tumult  broke  out 
again. 

It  was  suddenly  stilled.  O'Byrn,  from  his  chair  near 
the  rear,  saw  a  thin  white  hand  raised  deprecatingly, 
marked  a  sardonic  white  face  and  inscrutable  eyes, 
whose  owner  silently  demanded  attention.  It  was  yielded 


NOT  ON  THE  PROGRAM  97 

with  a  promptness  that  was  uncanny.  Then  Shaugh- 
nessy,  erect  in  the  midst  of  his  ward  delegation,  spoke. 
His  thin  voice  with  a  cold,  underlying  sneer,  cut  the 
air  like  a  knife,  penetrating  to  every  corner  of  the 
hall. 

"The  majority  rules,"  said  Shaughnessy.  "It  is  custom 
ary,  in  similar  case,  to  move  a  unanimous  nomination. 
I  so  move."  The  deposed  boss  sat  down.  The  resultant 
applause  was  rather  faint.  Shaughnessy  had  somehow 
chilled  the  enthusiasm. 

To  Micky  O'Byrn,  sitting  with  knitted  brows  as  the 
other  nominations,  involving  a  complete  demolition  of 
the  Shaughnessy  ticket,  were  hurried  through,  there  was 
food  for  much  serious  thought  and  conjecturing.  He 
noted  the  new  candidate  as  he  was  brought  before  the 
convention  and  introduced,  amid  great  enthusiasm,  by 
Hon.  Thomas  Grady.  He  was  older  than  Micky  had 
imagined  and  he  seemed  wearied,  almost  ill.  Still,  re 
flected  O'Byrn, — as  he  listened  to  the  candidate's  short 
speech  of  appreciation  and  of  assurances  for  the  future, 
in  the  event  of  election, — it  seemed  strange  that  the  Judge 
should  not  display  more  enthusiasm  over  an  honor  which 
had  come  to  him  so  signally.  Then  he  fell  again  to 
pondering,  striving  to  put  two  and  two  together. 

That  the  outcome  seriously  threatened  the  Fusionist 
movement  was  undeniable.  In  fact,  that  ticket  was  as 
good  as  defeated  already,  for  it  was  robbed  of  an  issue. 
Judge  Boynton  was  a  strong  candidate,  every  whit  as 
strong  as  Theodore  Packard  and  in  similar  ways.  In 
credible  as  it  might  seem,  Shaughnessy  had  been  hu 
miliated,  practically  kicked  out  by  his  party.  But  how 
had  it  happened?  Micky  frowned.  "There's  a  nigger 


98  THE  LASH 

somewhere,"  he  reflected,  "if  the  coon  could  only  be 
found." 

At  the  close  of  the  convention  Micky  was  walking 
thoughtfully  down  the  street  toward  the  office.  It  was 
then  dusk  and  the  lamps  were  being  lighted.  Someone 
joined  Micky  and  quietly  fell  into  pace  with  him.  O'Byrn 
glanced  up.  It  was  Slade. 

"Funny  thing  that,  over  at  the  convention,"  remarked 
Micky.  "I  should  have  thought  Shaughnessy  was 
solid." 

"Yes,"  answered  Slade,  placidly.  "I  should  have  natur 
ally  thought  he  was." 

"Were  you  there  ?" 

"You  bet." 

"Then  tell  me  whether  Shaughnessy  gave  Tom  Grady 
the  wink  to  spiel  this  afternoon,"  pursued  Micky,  ''or  is 
it  my  eyes?" 

Slade  looked  at  him  keenly,  then  laughed  quietly.  "I'm 
sayin'  nothing — yet,"  said  he,  "but  your  eyes  seem  O.  K. 
to  me." 


CHAPTR  X 

THE  LITTLE  RED  DEVIL 

HARKIXS  looked  up  from  his  loaded  desk, 
glancing  at  the  clock.  It  was  after  ten.  The 
city  editor  frowned  heavily  and  called  to  Fatty, 
who  was  just  passing  him  on  his  way  out. 

"Stearns,"  he  inquired,  "have  you  seen  O'Byrn?  He 
has  not  reported,  nor  did  he  ask  off  for  this  evening." 

"Perhaps  he's  sick,  sir,"  nervously  volunteered  Fatty, 
who  knew  better  but  did  not  intend  to  give  his  co- 
worker  away.  "Seems  to  me  he  looked  kind  o'  peaked 
yesterday." 

"He  could  easily  have  sent  word,"  doubtfully  rejoined 
Harkins.  "However,  you  might  inquire  and  let  me  know. 
Or,  if  you  see  him,  send  him  in  here,"  and  he  turned 
to  his  desk. 

Fatty  went  out.  "Send  him  in  here!"  he  chuckled 
grimly.  "If  he's  stayed  with  that  bunch  he  was  with 
at  six  o'clock,  Harkins  would  pass  him  on  to  the  gold 
cure." 

All  the  staff,  save  Harkins,  knew  it  by  this  time. 
Micky,  after  a  season  of  well  doing  that  was  protracted 
for  him,  had  broken  out  again  in  one  of  his  periodical 
sprees.  It  was  not  of  the  innocuous  variety  of  indul 
gence  that  affords  satiety  in  a  single  evening,  leaving 
the  victim  remorseful  and  fortified  against  another  lapse 


ioo  THE  LASH 

for  an  indefinite  time.  Of  such  are  the  fortunate,  who 
are  immune  from  the  wiles  of  a  sleepless,  diabolical  ap 
petite.  With  Micky  it  was  different.  To  resist  a  craving 
which  never  really  slumbered  meant  real  effort  and  un 
ceasing  vigilance.  To  succumb  meant  usually  an  un- 
recking  debauch  of  days,  while  the  little  red  devil  worked 
its  sweet  will  with  him,  to  finally  leave  him  spent  and 
shaken,  a  temporary  sodden  wreck.  This  was  the  grim 
enemy,  coupled  with  an  unreasoning  love  of  roving,  that 
had  made  him,  rarely  talented  as  he  was,  a  shifting 
vagrant  of  the  news.  It  had  landed  him,  ragged  and 
unkempt,  at  the  door  of  the  Courier  office.  Xow  it 
bade  fair  to  cast  him  forth  again,  shipwrecked  at  this 
most  prosperous  point  of  his  fortunes,  to  try  once  more 
a  dreary,  uncertain  future,  with  the  gibing  ghosts  of 
lost  opportunities  ever  at  his  elbow ;  with  the  maddening 
memory  of  a  forfeited  love,  the  truest  he  would  ever 
know,  mocking  him. 

Fatty  did  not  inquire  for  Micky  at  his  lodgings,  nor 
did  he  attempt  to  find  him  and  give  him  Harkins'  mes 
sage.  He  omitted  the  first  because  he  was  well  aware 
that  Micky  would  not  be  found  there  for  some  time,  the 
second  because  he  did  not  care  to  meet  O'Byrn  and 
his  crew,  for  fear  that  he  would  be  drawn  into  the  mael 
strom.  He  knew  Micky's  insistence  and  Fatty  was  cau 
tious.  Thirdly,  he  felt  assured  that  Harkins  would  be 
advised  of  the  cause  of  Micky's  absence  in  due  time, 
and  Stearns  had  no  desire  to  figure  as  a  bird  of  ill 
omen.  So  he  went  about  his  tasks  and  discreetly  dodged 
places  that  might  perchance  hold  the  uproarious  O'Byrn 
and  his  riotous  cronies. 

Fortune    was    against    Stearns,    however,    for    it    led 


THE  LITTLE  RED  DEVIL  101 

him,  in  quest  of  an  elusive  item,  into  the  rotunda  of 
the  Palace  hotel.  He  met  his  man  there,  hastily  secured 
his  story,  and  started  out.  The  entrance  to  the  wine 
room  was  at  one  side.  There  was  the  sound  of  revelry 
within. 

As  Stearns  was  about  to  pass  out,  the  swinging  doors  of 
the  wine  room  were  flung  open  and  there  appeared, 
flushed  and  disheveled,  the  riotous  O'Byrn.  At  sight 
of  Fatty,  who  gasped  and  made  a  wild  bolt  to  escape, 
Micky  emitted  a  whoop  of  triumph  and  swooped  down 
upon  him.  He  captured  him  handily  and  despite  his 
desperate  struggles  propelled  him  in  headlong  fashion 
into  the  wine  room,  for  the  Irishman  was  as  wiry  as 
he  was  slender.  Stearns  found  himself  in  the  center  of 
a  bibulous  throng  which  included  newspaper  men,  speedy 
young  sports  and  a  few  odd  bits  of  debris,  picked  up 
on  the  rising  flood.  They  crowded  about  Fatty,  some 
clamoring  for  introductions,  some  making  facetious  com 
ment  on  the  manner  of  his  entrance,  still  others  render 
ing  him  tribute  in  dubious  song.  For  a  moment  the  din 
was  indescribable,  while  the  "chemist"  made  ineffectual 
appeals  for  order.  Then  Micky  managed  to  make  him 
self  heard  above  the  babel  in  a  demand  for  quiet. 

"Fatness,"  said  he,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand,  "these 
are  the  Indians.  Indians,  this  are  Fatty.  Fatty,  the 
Indians  are  drunk.  Indians,  Fatty  ain't  drunk  now  but 
he  must  be  made  so.  Does  it  go?"  A  chorus  of  affirm 
ative  yells  made  answer. 

"Now,  Fatty,"  continued  O'Byrn  earnestly,  "in  meet 
ing  this  little  wish  of  ours  for  your  subsequent  comfort, 
be  a  gentleman.  Don't  show  a  grasping  spirit,  like  the 
two  meanest  men  on  record.  Never  heard  of  'em?  Well, 


102  THE  LASH 

one  of  'em  was  asked  by  a  friend  to  have  a  drink.  Asked 
what  he'd  take  he  waited  till  the  buyer  had  ordered  a 
whisky  and  then  says,  'Gimme  two  beers,'  so  as  to  get 
his  ten  cents'  worth.  Other  one  of  'em  was  worse  'n 
that.  Friend  asked  him  what  he'd  have,  an'  says  he,  'If 
you  don't  mind,  I'd  rather  have  the  money.'  No,  Indians, 
Fatty  ain't  like  that.  Ask  him  what  he'll  have,  and  the 
modesty  of  his  demands  would  put  those  graspin'  dubs  to 
shame." 

"Gee,  Micky,"  gurgled  Stearns,  trying  to  squirm  away, 
"I  ain't  got  time,  honest  I  ain't.  I've  got  an  assign 
ment." 

The  crowd  closed  in,  holding  him  securely.  Micky 
mused  with  corrugated  brow.  Thus  far  the  only  evi 
dences  of  his  indulgence  were  an  unusual  sparkle  of  the 
eye,  a  crimsoned  countenance  and  a  bewildering  flow  of 
language. 

"  'Assignment,' "  cogitated  Micky,  "what  does  that 
mean?  Where  have  I  heard  that  word?  Let  me  forget 
before  I  remember  already.  Let  us  drink  to  forget.  Vat 
iss,  Fatty?" 

Fatty  gulped  despairingly.  There  was  no  hope. 
"Birch  beer,"  he  murmured  resignedly.  There  sounded  a 
universal  groan. 

"Birch  beer!"  echoed  O'Byrn,  in  a  positive  squeal.  "I 
wonder  if  the  mixer  hasn't  got  some  Mellin's  food  ? 
Siphon  some  milk  into  him  ;  do,  the  sweet  thing!  Xo,  I'll 
tell  you  what  you'll  drink,  Fatty.  It'll  be  a  Mamie  Tay 
lor,  with  me!" 

There  was  unanimous  approval  registered  in  a  strident 
roar.  Despite  Stearns'  protest  the  "chemist"  was  urged 
to  mix  him  a  Mamie,  Fatty  finally  becoming  silenced 


THE  LITTLE  RED  DEVIL  103 

in  meek  submission.  Resolving  to  "shake  the  bunch" 
at  the  first  favorable  moment,  he  gazed  doubtfully  at  the 
seductive  mixture  in  his  glass.  Micky  held  up  his  Mamie 
and  soliloquized. 

"This  Mamie  is  a  jade,"  he  remarked,  with  an  air  of 
finality  that  effectually  settled  the  matter.  "She's  that 
smooth  and  insinuating,  so  agreeable,  that  it  seems  as  if 
you  could  drink  her  all  night,  so  you  generally  do.  Plain 
whisky's  more  honest.  It's  got  that  old,  shivery  yah-yah 
taste  to  it  that  keeps  warnin'  you  all  the  time  to  side 
track,  so  you're  apt  to  do  it  before  you  get  telescoped 
by  the  D  T's.  But  these  blamed  fancy  flips  are  what 
play  the  devil  with  a  fellow.  They're  come-ons,  clear 
from  champagne  to  ginger  ale  splits.  They  taste  so 
pretty  that  the  next  is  a  necessity,  and  after  that,  in  the 
pleasant  salve  to  the  palate,  you  lose  count.  Take  Mamie 
here.  She's  the  worst  in  the  push.  You  can  gauge 
your  capacity  in  any  other  line  except  on  her.  She  figures 
her  own  capacity  and  the  figures  always  lie,  as  you 
realize  next  morning.  Much  is  a  sufficiency,  always. 
More  is  a  superfluperosity. 

"In  this  connection,  Mamie  reminds  me  of  a  story  of 
an  old  man  up  north  who  had  slipped  from  grace  for 
some  years  and  never  thought  any  more  of  the  religious 
teachings  of  childhood  till  trouble  switched  in,  though 
that's  common  enough.  But  along  came  a  famine  time 
and  everyone  was  livin'  on  short  commons.  The  old 
man  was  urged  to  make  a  family  prayer  for  some  of 
the  necessities.  He  wasn't  used  to  it  and  shied  con 
siderable,  but  it  was  need  that  egged  him  on.  Well,  he 
got  started  O.  K.  with  'O  Lord,  send  us  a  bar'l  o'  pork. 
Send  us  a  bar'l  o'  sugar.  Send  us  a  bar'l  o' — o' — pep- 


104  THE   LASH 

per — Oh,  hell!  that's  too  much  pepper!'  was  the  way  he 
rang  off. 

"Now  that's  what  I'll  be  sayin'  about  Mamie,  too  much 
of  her,  when  I  come  to,  but  such  is  her  infernal  fascina 
tion  that — "  He  broke  off  with  a  wild  clutch  at  Fatty's 
receding  coat  tail.  Stearns  had  seized  the  favorable 
moment  to  escape.  He  got  out  before  Micky  could  catch 
him.  As  O'Byrn  was  about  to  shoot  through  the  door 
in  pursuit  of  him,  it  swung  inward  and  a  familiar  figure 
confronted  the  little  Irishman. 

"Well,  Micky,"  remarked  Dick  dryly,  "don't  you  think 
you've  had  enough?  Better  come  along." 

For  answer  O'Byrn  tried  to  drag  Dick  to  the  bar. 
"Come  on,  old  man,"  he  shouted.  "Get  in !  There's 
Mamies  to  burn." 

Dick  had  heard  of  his  co-worker's  outbreak  and  hur 
ried  from  the  office  in  quest  of  him,  chancing  to  learn 
where  he  was.  Micky  had  talked  with  him  previously, 
regarding  his  weakness,  and  Dick  knew  what  its  uninter 
rupted  continuance  would  mean. 

"Come  home,  Micky,"  he  urged,  "before  you  get 
maudlin.  Bunk  in  and  get  a  good  night's  rest  and  you'll 
be  all  right  for  work  tomorrow."  He  led  Micky  insist 
ently  out  of  the  wine  room,  unmindful  of  the  protests 
of  O'Byrn's  companions.  They  passed  through  the  office 
to  the  street. 

Micky  had  been  quiet  for  a  moment  but  now  his  liba 
tions  reasserted  their  influence.  He  struggled  with  Dick, 
voicing  sundry  curses. 

"What  d'  ye  mean?"  he  demanded.  "Let  me  go,  I'm 
going  back.  Mind  your  own  business,  can't  you?" 

"Shut   up!"   growled    Dick   fiercely.     "Can't   you    see 


THE  LITTLE  RED  DEVIL  105 

people  are  looking  at  us  ?  Close  your  face  and  come  along 
like  a  gentleman,  for,  I  tell  you,  you're  going  home!*' 

Then  something  happened.  Before  Micky's  haggard 
eyes  appeared  mistily,  taking  swift  and  tangible  substance, 
a  girl's  face,  young  and  lovely,  just  now  convulsed  with 
horror.  Then  it  was  gone,  leaving  a  leaden  weight  in 
Micky's  breast,  while  the  vapors  rose  sluggishly  from 
his  benumbed  brain.  Reason,  shrinking  and  ashamed, 
looked  out  from  his  hot  eyes.  He  braced  defiantly  though 
hopelessly. 

"It's  all  right,  Dick,  I'll  go  home,"  he  said  in  a  strange 
low  tone  and  they  walked  in  silence  down  the  street. 


CHAPTER  XI 

IN  THE  MORNING 

MICKY  awoke  late  that  morning  with  a  per 
sistent,  painful  throbbing  in  his  head,  fevered 
eyes  and  a  parched  throat.  The  symptoms 
held  an  arid  familiarity  which  was  swiftly 
allied  with  self  contempt,  as  sleep  yielded  full  place  to 
awakened  consciousness.  For  O'Byrn  would  never  be 
calloused.  As  he  once  expressed  it,  his  career  was  best 
epitomized  in  Ade's  graphic  epigram,  "Life  is  a  series 
of  relapses  and  recoveries."  The  inherent  manliness 
would  always  wage  war  against  the  little  red  devil  that 
sought  malevolently  to  wither  it.  It  would  be  a  pitifully 
checkered  fight,  but  whatever  the  issue, — even  should 
the  world,  which  never  understands,  write  him  down 
a  wreck  at  the  end, — a  few  who  knew  him  best,  and  un 
derstood,  would  know  that  Micky  tried.  Who  will  ques 
tion,  in  a  world  where  so  many  drift,  that  in  the  simple 
will  to  try  lies  victory  ? 

Micky  lay  quiet  for  some  moments  after  awaking, 
palms  pressed  to  his  burning  temples,  swollen  eyes 
gazing  sombrely  up  at  the  ceiling  of  his  small,  plainly 
furnished  room.  The  hot  sun  poured  in  at  the  window, 
before  which  the  shade  had  not  been  drawn.  The  boy, 
for  he  was  scarcely  more,  wandered  in  dreary  retrospect 
through  a  world  of  gray  memories.  How  gray,  how 


IN  THE  MORNING  107 

bleak,  to  be  sure !  At  tbe  very  outset  the  recollection 
of  a  childhood  saddened  by  the  frequent  sight  of  a  woman 
in  tears ;  a  woman  with  a  pale,  worn  face  and  eyes 
that  held  the  inexpressible  pathos  of  a  forlorn  hope  de 
ferred,  his  mother.  His  father,  did  the  world  still  hold 
him?  O'Byrn  told  himself  fiercely  that  it  could  not  be, 
that  earth  must  long  since  have  wearied  of  such  an  ex- 
cresence  and  cast  it  forth  to  annihilation. 

To  the  woman  with  the  pale,  worn  face  and  tired  eyes, 
the  woman  who  was  now  at  rest,  he  owed  his  upbring 
ing.  From  the  time  that  he  could  not  remember,  when 
she  and  her  baby  were  deserted  by  the  husband  and 
father,  till  the  hour  when  she  lay  wasted  in  her  final 
illness,  she  had  toiled  for  the  boy,  to  give  him  clothes, 
sustenance,  schooling.  Micky  remembered  with  a  dull 
ache  at  his  heart  how  in  the  supreme  hour  the  poor  tired 
eyes  had  watched  in  vain  for  one  who  came  not,  how 
the  wan  lips  had  in  delirium  whispered  a  dishonored 
name.  Then  the  end,  and  the  ensuing  picture  of  a  little 
newsvender,  led  sobbing  from  the  new-filled  grave  of  the 
truest  friend  he  would  ever  know. 

And  this  other,  the  being  who  had  left  a  frail  weakling 
to  bear  the  brunt  alone,  for  what  must  the  son  thank 
him?  For  the  inherited  fiend's  appetite  that  marred  him, 
no  more.  The  son  well  knew  that  the  craving  was  the 
intensified  replica  of  the  father's  crowning  vice.  He 
had  learned,  moreover,  that  the  parent  had  deemed  it  a 
witty  thing  to  ply  the  son  with  toddy  while  in  his  cradle. 
The  son  took  to  it  with  an  avidity  of  grave  presage, 
but  which  delighted  the  tippling  parent.  This  was  the 
heritage  from  his  father,  a  heritage  that  held  in  fee 
wastes  of  black  bog  and  hungry  mire,  with  death  squat- 


io8  THE  LASH 

ting  grimly  in  the  midst.  Ah,  what  a  goodly  patrimony 
he  had  left,  this  absent  one ;  what  wealth  indeed ! 

The  boy  in  the  bed  winced  as  beneath  the  impact  of 
a  blow.  He  struck  clenched  hands  together  fiercely.  "Oh, 
God !"  he  breathed,  the  tone  combining  the  bitter  venom 
of  a  curse  with  the  agonized  entreaty  of  a  prayer. 

A  moment  more  he  lay  in  silence,  vague  eyes  fixed  on 
a  gray  and  resurrected  past.  He  stirred  uneasily.  "Ah, 
well,  this  won't  do!"  he  muttered,  and  flinging  off  the 
coverings  he  rolled  off  upon  the  floor.  The  sunlight 
dazzled  his  eyes  and  he  blinked  like  a  bat  as  he  drew 
the  shade.  He  swayed  unsteadily  for  a  moment,  wincing 
as  a  sharp  pain  stabbed  his  throbbing  head,  dying  in 
needle-like  prickings  just  behind  the  eyes.  With  a  dis 
couraged  groan  he  made  his  way  to  the  wash  stand,  and 
emptying  the  pitcher  into  the  bowl,  plunged  his  fevered 
head  into  the  refreshing  contents  and  held  it  there.  It 
was  very  pleasant,  the  coolness,  and  a  brisk  rubbing  with 
a  crash  towel  added  decidedly  to  the  relief.  Dressing 
with  shaking  fingers,  he  was  finally  ready  and  left  the 
house,  blinking  swollen  eyes  owlishly  in  the  clear  sun 
light.  He  stopped  at  a  restaurant  just  long  enough  to 
swallow  a  cupful  of  black  coffee  in  order  to  neutralize 
a  bevy  of  differing  tastes  that  tenanted  his  mouth,  vying 
in  stale  mustiness.  Again  he  sought  the  open  air,  wan 
dering  aimlessly. 

Clearly  the  coffee  was  not  enough,  for  his  head  throbbed 
worse  than  before.  Involuntarily  he  steadied  it  with 
one  hand,  to  keep  it  on,  while  he  put  into  Kelly's  drug 
store  for  a  bromo.  Kelly's  was  popular  with  the  boys. 
It  was  open  nights  and  they  could  buy  whisky  in  the 
back  room,  after  all  the  other  places  were  closed,  and 


IN  THE  MORNING  109 

secure  bromo  over  the  soda  water  fountain  in  the  morn 
ing. 

Micky  absorbed  his  bromo  in  a  gloomy,  introspective 
mood.  The  bracer,  as  it  is  generally  understood,  he  was 
minded  this  morning  to  avoid  as  if  it  had  been  a  pestilence. 
He  was  wont  to  say  that  a  bracer  was  to  him  but  a  limited 
stop-over,  that  he  would  be  sure  to  be  traveling  again 
before  noon.  He  had  travelled  far  enough  this  trip, 
far  enough  to  menace  a  future,  which  had  never  seemed 
so  bright.  Disquieting  recollections  gnawed  at  Micky's 
mind.  A  girl's  face,  eloquent  with  horror  and  disgust, 
seen  as  through  a  mist  in  the  lighted  street,  confronted 
his  shamed,  wakened  consciousness,  while  he  writhed 
inwardly.  And,  too,  his  post  with  the  Courier?  Had 
he  lost  it?  How  much  latitude  would  they  extend  to 
drunkards  ? 

A  drunkard!  He  shuddered  at  the  repellent  thought, 
yet  what  else  was  he?  What  else  any  man  who  allowed 
the  infernal  appetite  to  lure  him  from  duty  to  be  per 
formed?  Not  once  but  many  times  had  he,  O'Byrn, 
fallen  by  this  standard.  Repeatedly  had  he  been  cast 
off,  with  the  goal  of  reputation  and  success  in  sight, 
because  of  the  little  red  devil,  who  journeyed  with  him 
the  broad  land  over,  making  its  hateful  presence  known 
at  riotous  intervals  that  resulted  in  swift  changes  and 
shifts  of  scene  for  the  little  Irishman.  If,  indeed,  he 
had  not  lost  his  post  with  the  Courier,  it  was  due  to 
the  fortunate  interruption  of  a  spree  that  might  other 
wise  have  lasted  a  week.  O'Byrn's  soul  went  out  in 
gratitude  to  Dick.  Even  though  it  should  prove  that 
he  had  lost  both  his  place  and  his  lady,  it  was  a  melan 
choly  pleasure  to  Micky  to  have  sobered  so  soon.  He 


no  THE  LASH 

thought  with  deep  self-disgust  of  prior  orgies ;  of  wild 
days  and  wilder  nights,  piling  deliriously  upon  each 
other  while  sleep  was  unknown,  a  stranger  to  be  banished  ; 
when  all  things  loomed  distorted,  unreal,  through  a 
red  haze.  So  it  would  go  until,  with  abused  nature  ex 
hausted,  he  would  sink  into  a  sodden  stupor.  From 
this  he  would  finally  emerge  a  shaking  wreck,  with 
the  blackest  of  memories  and  usually  with  the  blankest 
of  futures,  for  his  job  usually  went  with  his  spree.  The 
latter  was  always  of  inconvenient  length  for  the  demands 
of  a  newspaper  office. 

Something  of  these  horrors  he  had  communicated  to 
Dick  some  time  before.  "This  thing  has  played  the 
devil  with  me,  Dick,"  he  had  said.  "I  want  excitement. 
Drinking  is  a  means  to  the  end.  Then,  first  I  know,  it's 
an  end  to  my  means.  That  and  my  infernal  itch  for 
shifting  have  made  me  a  scoffing  and  a  byword.  If  I 
could  get  chained  down,  and  lost  my  thirst,  I  might 
make  good.  I've  come  near  it  a  lot  of  times  and  then 
the  cussed  coupling  would  break  and  I'd  go  slidin'  down 
the  grade  again.  Then  it  would  be  the  bumpers  out. 
I  guess  it'll  be  that  way  till  I'm  backed  onto  the  siding 
for  good.  But  I'm  headed  right  now,  and,  if  you  ever 
catch  me  toyin'  with  the  lush,  I  want  you  to  joyously 
jack  my  jeans  clear  to  my  lodgings.  Knock  me  down, 
pick  me  up  and  knock  me  down  again." 

"That's  all  very  well,  Micky,"  Dick  had  replied  with  a 
remonstrating  bellow  of  a  laugh,  "but  I'm  not  enough  of 
a  pharisee  for  that,  you  know,  for  I'm  no  total  abstainer 
myself." 

"Yes,  but  you're  about  two-thirds  of  a  one,"  replied 
the  other.  "You  don't  know  what  an  appetite  means. 


IN  THE  MORNING  in 

You  drink,  when  you  drink  at  all,  for  good  fellowship, 
because  someone  asks  you  to.  Left  to  yourself,  you'd 
never  think  of  it.  If  you  ever  take  too  much,  it  means 
you're  on  the  water  wagon  for  a  number  of  months, 
because  you  dread  the  feeling  of  the  morning  after. 
You're  one  of  those  lucky  devils  that  can  monkey  with 
the  stuff  for  a  lifetime  and  never  acquire  the  faintest 
vestige  of  a  thirst.  Now  as  for  me,  I  can't  coquette 
with  it.  I  have  to  walk  sideways  past  a  saloon  with  my 
face  turned  the  other  way,  across  the  street  to  the  un 
dertaker's.  I've  simply  got  to  let  it  alone.  Why?  Be 
cause  a  lot  of  hard  jolts  have  taught  me  that  it's  a 
lot  stronger  than  T  am  unless  it's  held  down  with  both 
hands.  Sometimes  I  can  take  a  glass  and  let  it  alone, 
but  oftener  the  first  glass  is  only  a  drop  in  the  bucket 
that  starts  a  demand  to  annex  the  whole  well.  Then 
there's  a  roaring  Rip  Van  Winkle  that  I  come  out  of 
a  week  or  two  later  to  find  my  job  miles  behind  and  me 
countin'  ties  and  waitin'  for  a  freight.  That's  the  worst 
of  it,  Dick,"  with  a  red  flush  of  shame.  "It's  thinkin' 
that  you're  just  as  liable  to  fall  asleep  at  the  switch, 
when  you're  on  duty.  Now  that's  what  I'm  carrying  over 
the  country  with  me.  That's  what  I'm  fightin'.  First 
one  on  top,  then  the  other.  But  whichever  way,  Dick, 
it's  hell!" 

There  had  ensued  a  silence,  broken  by  Dick's  voice,  un- 
wontedly  sober. 

"The  gold  cure,  Micky,  did  you  ever  try  it?" 
"No !"  with  vigor,  "and  I  never  will !    If  I  can't  stand 
I'll  go  down,  but  it'll  be  alone.     If  I  can't  weather  it 
without  that,  why  then  me  to  the  dip-house,  that's  all. 
No  artificial  vacations  in  mine !" 


H2  THE  LASH 

Which,  if  perhaps  wrong-headed,  at  least  bespoke  a 
plenitude  of  grit. 

Dick  had  remembered  Micky's  request  to  deliver  him, 
if  need  be,  from  the  fascinations  of  the  grape,  and  had 
complied  with  it  in  spirit,  if  not  in  letter,  the  night  pre 
vious.  O'Byrn  had  been  firmly  torn  from  the  bibulous 
bevy  with  which  he  had  started  that  afternoon  and  been 
escorted  home.  And  though  the  prospect  was  dismal 
enough  to  the  boy  who  stood,  hands  in  pockets,  on  the 
curb,  staring  moodily  at  the  asphalt,  he  was  glad  that 
Dick  had  looked  him  up.  It  might  have  been  worse. 

How  bad  was  it,  anyway?  Micky  drew  a  long  breath, 
squared  his  shoulder?  ana  suited  ioi  the  ofnce. 


CHAPTER  XII 

WHY  SHE  CRIED 

MICKY  was  not  dismissed,  though  the  city 
editor  had  a  heart  to  heart  talk  with  him. 
"\Ve  are  not  exactly  sticklers  for  total  ab 
stinence  here,  O'Byrn,"  he  said.  "I  am  free 
to  confess  that  I  am  ineligible  to  membership  in  the  I.  O. 
G.  T.  myself.  But  one  thing  the  Courier  does  insist 
upon,  which  is  that  a  man's  indulgence  must  not  be 
allowed  to  interfere  with  his  work.  I  had  important  as 
signments  for  you  last  night  and  had  to  place  them  in 
other  hands.  Besides,  we  were  short  of  men.  When 
I  accidentally  learned,  near  press-time,  of  the  real  reason 
for  your  non-appearance,  I  was  minded  to  let  you  go. 
But  from  what  I  learn  I  gather  that  it  is  something  of 
a  disease  in  your  case.  Cure  yourself,  my  boy,  for  you're 
a  good  man  and  I've  decided  to  give  you  another  chance." 
Micky  stood  quietly,  his  freckled  face  a  queer  study  of 
mingled  relief  and  misery.  "It's  more  than  I  deserve, 
Mr.  Harkins,"  he  replied.  "I'm  a  pup  when  I  start 
drinkin'.  You're  right,  it's  a  disease  with  me.  I  won't 
promise  that  it's  a  final  attack,  for  I  don't  know,  but 
I  will  promise,"  with  meaning,  "that  you'll  never  have 
to  jack  me  up  for  it  again.  If  I  can't  hold  on,  why  I'll 
quietly  let  go."  He  walked  out. 

Micky  worked   feverishly  for  a  couple  of  days  after 


H4  THE  LASH 

that,  his  heart  full  of  misgiving.  His  place  was  assured, 
true  enough,  but  there  was  another  matter,  even  more 
vital,  which  was  rife  with  uncertainty.  A  girl's  face, 
eloquent  of  horror  and  dismay,  swam  mistily  before  his 
eyes,  as  in  the  lighted  street  in  front  of  the  hotel  when 
he  was  struggling  with  Glenwood.  He  closed  his  eyes 
with  a  shiver,  but  still  saw  the  face,  known  for  whose 
it  was.  Would  she  ever  receive  him,  even  nod  to  him 
again  ?  Never,  probably,  and  why  should  she  ?  This  was  a 
new  attitude  for  the  ordinarily  rollicking,  independent 
O'Byrn.  It  remains  for  the  lover  to  sound  the  nethermost 
depths  of  humility. 

He  watched  his  mail  those  two  days  with  apprehensive 
eyes,  fearing  to  receive  a  note  which  should  administer 
his  coup  de  grace.  None  came,  and,  as  a  natural  se 
quence,  his  suspense  increased.  It  is  the  axe  sus 
pended  that  the  fowl  fears ;  with  its  fall  subsequent  pro 
ceedings  fail  to  interest  the  bird. 

Finally  there  arrived  O'Byrn's  night  off.  It  could  be 
employed  but  in  one  way ;  he  must  become  definitely 
acquainted  with  his  fate.  Behold  him,  with  set  teeth 
and  an  air  of  impending  martyrdom,  at  the  Muldoons' 
door  at  eight  of  the  evening.  It  was  a  Friday  evening, 
but  Micky  was  desperate.  He  breathed  hard  for  a 
moment,  wavered,  then  rang  the  bell  heroically.  There 
was  a  soft  stir  inside,  the  door  opened.  It  was  dark  in 
the  hall.  Micky  leaned  forward. 

"Is  that  you,  Maisie?"  he  breathed.    "I—" 

"Naw,"  piped  a  childish  treble,  "it  ain't  Maisie.  It's 
her  brudder,  Terence." 

"Sure,"   murmured   Micky   confusedly.     "Would   Ve 


WHY  SHE  CRIED  115 

known  from  your  general  cut,  Terence,  but  I  can't  see 

you.     Where's  the  folks?" 

"All  out,  Mister  Micky,"  rejoined  the  youngster,  thrust 
ing  his  tousled  head  out  of  the  doorway  to  inspect  the 
visitor.  "Ain't  no  one  to  home  but  me." 

"Where's  Maisie?"  Micky  demanded  in  a  tone  which 
indicated  that  Terence  would  fill  no  particular  gap  as  far 
as  he  was  concerned. 

"Out  to  a  dance,"  grinned  Terence.  "Gone  with 
Billy  Ryan."  Micky's  brow  darkened,  while  Terence's 
grin  grew  wider.  Billy  Ryan!  The  cavalier  who  left 
a  Manhattan  to  go  out  for  beers !  Micky's  mind  swiftly 
reverted  to  the  Ironworkers'  ball,  to  which  Ryan  had 
brought  the  lady  and  from  which  O'Byrn  had  escorted 
her  home.  And  now — in  a  brief  second  Micky  gathered 
some  luminous  ideas  in  evolution.  He  pulled  himself 
together. 

"Say,  Terence,"  he  murmured,  with  a  cajoling  wink, 
"take  this  and  don't  speak  of  my  havin'  called,  see?" 
Terence  nodded  solemnly  and  closed  the  door,  richer  by 
a  quarter.  Micky  strode  savagely  away,  rich  in  a  fund 
of  swift-risen  jealousy  and  in  an  empty,  aimless  night 
off. 

"Ryan!"  he  ruminated  with  a  groan.  "I  could  stand 
for  most  anyone  else.  But  a  soak  like  him !  Blast  it ! 
Can't  a  girl  get  next  to  anything  nowadays  but  what 
drinks?" 

And  indeed,  in  these  degenerate  days,  with  teetotalers 
well  nigh  outside  her  ken,  many  a  maiden  has  had  often 
ample  occasion  to  ask  herself  that  question. 

The  pot  having  apostrophized  the  kettle,  Micky  felt 
easier,  though  the  thought  of  Ryan  was  productive  of 


ii6  THE  LASH 

inward  profanity  through  all  of  that  singularly  tedious 
and  empty  evening. 

There  ensued  a  miserable  week  for  Micky,  though  it 
was  a  fortunate  one  for  the  Courier.  Misery  produces 
a  wide  diversity  of  results,  depending  upon  the  makeup 
of  the  afflicted  subject.  The  one  it  can  render  absolutely 
useless  to  the  needs  of  the  workaday  grind.  The  other, 
beneath  its  bitter  lash,  becomes  a  human  dynamo,  plung 
ing  into  the  nepenthe  of  toil.  Of  such  was  Micky,  and 
a  nervously  brilliant  week  was  credited  to  him  in  con 
sequence. 

But  though  the  course  was  eminently  more  beneficial 
to  him  and  his  endangered  journalistic  prospects  than 
bootless  brooding  would  have  been,  it  was  a  sorry  week 
for  him.  Moreover,  it  was  an  interminably  long  one. 
He  would  not  have  believed  that  such  a  week,  filled 
with  a  restless  whirl  of  work,  could  have  passed  so  slowly. 
Conflicting  emotions  disquieted  him,  played  pranks  with 
an  appetite  for  meals  ordinarily  as  reliably  fixed  as  sea 
tides,  filled  his  days  with  a  wan  restlessness  and  troubled 
his  sleep.  For  Micky,  though  the  soft  impeachment 
would  have  probably  won  from  him  a  picturesque  de 
nial,  was  in  love,  and  misery  is  a  privilege  of  lovers. 

He  watched  the  mails  and  the  postman.  The  latter 
never  stopped  and  Micky  anathematized  him  in  his  heart, 
also  a  privilege  of  lovers  whenever  thorns  and  nettles 
spring  up  in  Arcady.  It  is  curious,  this  universal  mental 
arraignment  of  the  postman  for  the  non-delivery  of 
matter  never  sent.  Why,  in  all  reason,  should  he  be 
forced  to  figure  as  a  buffer?  Yet  he  is,  and  the  rancor 
against  him  felt  by  the  disappointed  is  all  the  more 
bitter  because  of  the  absolute  necessity  for  its  repression. 


WHY  SHE  CRIED  117 

One  would  acquire  only  merited  ridicule  and  punishment 
for  thrashing  the  postman,  though  one  would  often  like 
to.  One  may  only  glare,  and,  if  the  postman  notices  it, 
he  doesn't  mind.  He  has  grown  cynical  in  service.  So 
to  revert,  as  the  days  passed  so  also  did  the  postman : 
and  Micky,  while  feeling  quite  murderous,  simply  glar_a. 

Why  didn't  she  write,  and  again,  why  should  she? 
Micky  writhed  upon  the  twin  horns  of  his  dilemma.  If 
she  wrote,  what  in  reason  could  she  write  except  a  definite 
sentence  of  banishment  ?  If  she  did  not  write,  what  could 
the  implied  message  naturally  mean  but  the  same?  Oh, 
of  course,  he  was  out  of  it  anyway.  But  in  that  case, 
what  of  Ryan  ?  Was  it  possible  that  Ryan  was  con 
sidered  preferable  to  him?  When  that  query  introduced 
itself  Micky  usually  swore.  Altogether  it  was  a  hard 
week. 

On  one  thing,  however,  he  was  determined.  The  mat 
ter  should  be  settled,  once  for  all,  on  his  next  night 
off.  Perhaps  Terence  had  been  indiscreet  and  revealed 
the  secret  of  his  previous  fruitless  call.  Maisie  might 
expect  him  on  the  following  Friday  night  and  be  away. 
Well,  he  would  fix  that.  So  he  arranged  for  Thurs 
day  night.  A  little  cunning  might  insure  at  least  an 
audience. 

Behold  him,  then,  on  the  fateful  evening  at  the  Mul- 
doons'  door,  heroically  despairing.  A  soft  glow  shone 
through  the  curtained  parlor  windows.  Within  he  heard 
the  soft  chords  of  her  little  organ.  She  might  have  com 
pany,  Ryan  perhaps.  O'Byrn  clenched  his  teeth  and  rang 
the  bell. 

The  organ  was  suddenly  silent.  To  the  boy  waiting 
outside,  the  succeeding  moment  of  suspense  was  filled 


ii8  THE  LASH 

with  a  tumult  of  loud  heart  beats,  with  strange  throb- 
bings  at  the  temples.  Then  the  door  slowly  opened.  "Who 
is  there?"  asked  a  voice. 

He  stepped  inside  without  a  word,  laying  his  hat  on 
the  hall  table.  Forbiddingly  silent,  she  gazed  an  instant 
into  his  face,  glacial  blue  eyes  searching  his  own  hungry 
ones,  her  face  so  cold  as  to  cause  him  an  inward  shiver. 
Then  without  speaking,  she  entered  the  little  parlor,  lie 
following. 

They  sat  far  apart.  Her  manner  increased  the  gap 
immeasurably.  Micky  felt  dimly  that  speech  would 
partake  of  the  nature  of  transmission  over  a  long-dis 
tance  telephone  to  the  Klondike.  However,  he  cleared 
his  throat  with  some  diffidence.  It  was  something  of  an 
odd  sensation  for  him. 

"You  were  playin',''  he  ventured. 

"Yes,"  somewhat  pointedly,  "I  was." 

"Well,"  he  continued,  "don't  let  me  interrupt  you.  I 
like  music." 

"Oh,  do  you?"  indifferently.  "Sorry,  but  the  pieces 
I  was  playin'  are  new  ones.  I  don't  know  'em  well 
enough  to  play  'em  before  company." 

"So?"  he  continued,  calmly  ignoring  the  reiterated 
hint.  "Well,  try  some  of  the  old  ones.  They're  good 
enough  for  me."  He  watched  her  face  eagerly. 

It  did  not  relax.  "I  think  I've  forgotten  the  old  ones, 
Mr.  O'Byrn,"  she  said  slowly. 

"But  I  haven't,"  somewhat  wistfully.  "And  it  was  not 
so  long  ago." 

"Not  so  long  ago!"  her  blue  eyes  brightening.  "Mr. 
O'Byrn,  it  was  longer  ago  than  you  seem  to  think." 


WHY  SHE  CRIED  119 

"Yes,  I  guess  it  was,"  dejectedly.  "It's  a  long  way 
from  'Micky'  to  'Mister'  after  all." 

The  girl's  lip  curled.  "It's  your  own  fault,"  she  re 
torted.  Then  with  a  sudden  burst  of  hurt  resentment, 
"I  couldn't  believe  it  at  first,"  with  an  involuntary  little 
shiver,  "when  I  saw  you  that  night.  My  brother  was 
pretty  mad,  I  can  tell  you,  said  I  ought  to  shake  you. 
Such  a  sight!" 

"So  your  brother  was  with  you/'  exclaimed  Micky, 
half  to  himself.  One  maddening  surmise  had  been  set 
at  rest.  The  thought  of  Ryan  had  haunted  him  of 
late. 

"Yes,  who  did  you  think  it  was?  Couldn't  you  see 
him?"  with  sarcasm. 

"Fm  afraid  I  couldn't,"  with  a  humility  strange  in 
him,  "but  I  could  see  you,  Maisie,  and  it  sobered  me." 

"High  time!"  she  flashed.  "But  then,"  with  an  im 
patient  gesture,  "It  ain't  pleasant  to  talk  about,  so  cut 
it  out.  What  did  you  come  here  for,  anyway?" 

He  straightened.  "To  apologize,  Maisie,  that's  all," 
he  said  simply.  "Just  that  and  to  ask  for  another  chance. 
I  sh'an't  whine  or  excuse  myself.  Only  this.  They  gave 
me  another  chance  at  the  office.  Do  I  get  one  here  ?" 

She  tapped  the  carpet  with  an  impatient  foot.  Her 
eyes  were  downcast,  her  cheeks  flushed.  Micky  watched 
her  wistfully.  Suddenly  she  stole  a  swift  glance  at  him, 
her  blue  eyes  brimming  with  tears. 

"Oh,"  she  burst  out,  a  pitiful  break  in  her  voice,  "if 
I  hadn't  seen  you — that  way.  It  nearly  killed  me.  And 
every  time  I've  thought  of  you  since — I've  seen  you — 
like  that!  Oh,  Micky — '  Her  voice  was  lost  in  sobs, 
stifled  in  her  handkerchief. 


120  THE  LASH 

He  sprang  from  his  chair,  kneeling  at  her  side,  strok 
ing  her  hair  with  trembling  fingers,  pouring  out  his 
soul  in  broken,  incoherent  words. 

"I'm  a  beast,  Maisie,  a  beast!  Don't  cry  so — dear. 
It's  always  been  so,  it's  what's  done  for  me  all  my  life. 
My  mother's  dead,  thank  God!  She  died  before  she 
knew.  But  my  father/'  striking  his  clenched  hand  on 
the  arm  of  her  chair,  "he's  got  it  to  answer  for,  wherever 
he  is,  living  or  dead !  He  was  a  devil,  Maisie,  and  he 
made  me  one.  He  fed  me  the  stuff  when  I  was  a  baby 
and  I  took  to  it  like  milk ;  it  was  his  cursed  blood  in  me, 
1  suppose.  It's  driven  me  from  pillar  to  post,  from  a 
job  to  the  gutter,  time  and  again.  It's  been  up  one 
minute  and  down  the  next  with  me.  Oh,  I'm  not  fit 
to  touch  you,  Maisie,  I'm  a  dog  to  ask  it,  but  I  tell  you 
that,  if  I  play  out  the  game  alone,  this  thing  will  drive 
me  to  hell!  Would  you — stand  by  me,  help  me?  It's 
always  been  stronger  than  I  am,  perhaps  it  always  will 
be,  but  Maisie,  I  think  I  can  beat  it  out,  can  be  a  man — 
with  you !" 

It  was  out  at  last,  the  sum  of  his  passionate  longing, 
poured  out  despairingly  in  a  flood  of  wild  unrecking 
words ;  without  forethought,  wrung  from  him  by  the 
sudden  yearning  born  of  the  sight  of  the  girl  in  tears. 
Now  that  it  was  over  he  remained  silent  a  moment,  still 
torn  by  his  emotion  and  by  hers.  Then,  slowly  and 
fearfully,  his  stinging  eyes  sought  her  face.  It  was 
buried  in  her  little  hands.  Tears  trickled  through  her 
clasped  fingers. 

He  rose  heavily  to  his  feet.  What  madness  had  pos 
sessed  him,  what  presumption !  He  had  asked  her  to 
marry — a  drunkard.  He  laughed  with  bitter  brevity. 


WHY  SHE  CRIED  121 

The  sound  brought  the  sight  of  a  startled  face  with  tear- 
wet  eyes. 

"Overlook  it,  Maisie,"  he  asked  desolately,  as  he  turned 
away,  "and  good-by.  I  don't  know  how  I  came  to  do  it — 
but  you  cried." 

He  was  half  way  to  the  hall.  There  was  a  soft  step 
behind  him,  a  light  touch  upon  his  arm.  He  turned 
swiftly,  the  ghost  of  a  wan  hope  in  his  haggard  eyes. 

"Ah,  Micky,"  she  whispered,  with  a  smile  whose  tender 
memory  would  live  for  him  in  endless  summer  through 
autumn's  falling  leaves  till  winter's  winding  sheets, — 
"don't  you — don't  you  know — why — I  cried?" 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A   WAGER 

MICKY  told  Dick  about  it  one  evening,  for  his 
heart  was  full.  His  engagement  was  a  seri 
ous  thing  to  him,  and  something  like  fear 
mingled  with  his  hope  of  the  future.  He  was 
deeply  sensible  of  his  past  mistakes,  but  he  knew  him 
self  too  well  to  look  to  the  coming  days  with  unshrink 
ing  confidence.  He  hoped,  very  humbly ;  that  was  all. 

Dick  was  sympathetic,  he  understood.  His  was  one 
of  those  rare  natures  that  invite,  comprehend  and  respect 
confidences.  "You  know  my  record,  Dick,"  Micky  had 
said.  "There  isn't  much  in  it  of  a  domestic  tinge.  But 
just  the  same,  when  I  happen  to  get  a  night  off  and  sit 
in  the  little  parlor  with  her,  it  seems — "  with  a  queer 
little  break  in  his  voice, —  "why  Dick,  it  seems  as  if 
I  had  at  last — got  home!" 

And  Dick  had  wrung  Micky's  hand  until  it  ached,  and 
assured  him  in  his  deep  bass  voice,  eloquent  with  fervent 
earnestness,  that  he  was  all  right,  and  poor  Micky  had 
begun  to  hope  that,  after  a  long  and  checkered  season, 
he  was. 

The  city  was  now  fully  roused  to  the  contest  that  was 
being  waged  for  its  control  between  the  Fusionists  and 
Democrats,  and,  as  a  natural  sequence,  they  were  busy 
in  the  newspaper  offices.  One  thing  was  quite  evident, 


A  WAGER  123 

however,  which  was  that  the  unexpected  coup  made  by 
the  opponents  of  Shaughnessy,  at  the  Democratic  con 
vention,  had  rendered  the  chances  of  the  Fusionist  ticket 
dubious,  to  say  the  least.  In  fact,  the  Fusionists  had 
been  robbed,  to  a  large  extent,  of  their  thunder.  The 
spectacular  repudiation  of  Shaughnessy  by  his  own  con 
vention,  the  nomination  of  a  man  for  the  mayoralty 
against  whom  no  word  of  civil  or  political  taint  had 
ever  been  breathed,  had  greatly  lessened  the  Fusionists' 
chances  of  success.  Where  they  had  expected  to  be 
able  to  deal  mighty  blows,  by  pointing  to  the  shame 
less  effrontery  of  Shaughnessy  in  forcing  a  malodorous 
city  ticket  through  his  convention,  they  were  now  com 
pelled  to  take  another  tack.  The  situation  had  been  made 
the  subject  of  an  earnest  conference  between  Colonel 
Westlake  and  the  men  controlling  other  pro-Fusionist 
newspapers  directly  after  the  Democratic  convention  and 
its  surprising  results. 

So,  in  the  assaults  which  the  opposing  newspapers, 
led  by  the  Courier,  were  making  upon  the  Democracy 
there  was  no  hint  of  detraction  of  the  Judge.  How 
could  there  be?  They  contented  themselves  with  the 
assumption  that  the  respected  and  able  jurist  had  been 
imposed  upon.  To  be  sure,  Shaughnessy,  having  be 
come  notorious,  had  been  sacrificed  by  his  keen  associates 
in  their  own  interest.  Should  they  be  successful  at  the 
polls,  the  argument  was  made  that  Judge  Boynton  and 
some  of  his  well  meaning  associates  upon  the  ticket, 
despite  their  good  intentions,  would  be  powerless  to 
cleanse  the  Augean  stables  because  they  would  be  pre 
vented  from  so  doing  by  forces  within  their  own  party. 


124  THE  LASH 

Fusion  would  furnish  a  new  broom,  guaranteed  to  sweep 
clean. 

This  was  strong  and  logical  reasoning,  but  there  were 
signs  that  it  was  ineffective.  There  was  a  strong  retort 
to  be  made,  which  was  that  the  purifying  movement  in 
the  Democracy  had  come  from  within.  The  leaders 
named  were  above  suspicion ;  some  of  them  were 
recognized  bitter  enemies  of  Shaughnessy.  Men  of  in 
fluence  who  had  joined  the  Fusionists,  though  Demo 
crats,  openly  returned,  holding  that  the  necessity  for 
Fusion  no  longer  existed.  As  the  Democrats  had  a  natural 
ascendency  in  the  city,  the  outlook  for  Fusion  was  on  the 
whole  growing  rather  depressing. 

Following  his  humiliation  in  the  convention,  Shaugh 
nessy  had  left  the  city  for  several  days.  Upon  re 
turning,  he  apparently  took  up  the  life  of  a  recluse.  He 
confined  himself  strictly  to  the  affairs  of  his  wholesale 
house,  dividing  his  time  equally  between  the  office  and 
his  lodgings.  He  was  no  longer  at  headquarters,  where 
the  sight  of  him  was  once  so  familiar ;  he  had  apparently 
dropped  all  interest  in  politics,  though  nobody  dared 
to  ask  him  anything  about  it.  When  Shaughnessy  first 
struck  the  town,  said  the  old  stagers,  he  was  quite 
decently  approachable,  but  he  had  ceased  so  to  be  for 
years  past.  It  was  noted,  however,  by  some  who  chanced 
to  meet  him  upon  the  street  and  glanced  curiously  at 
him,  that  he  was  ghastlier  than  ever,  with  sunken  cheeks 
and  dull  eyes.  He  looked  ill. 

But  there  was  one  who  had  not  ceased  to  regard  Mr. 
Shaughnessy  with  suspicion,  a  suspicion  that  grew  day 
by  day,  and  that  was  Micky  O'Byrn.  When  Shaugh 
nessy  left  town  after  his  rout,  O'Byrn  muttered,  "Up 


A  WAGER  125 

to  more  deviltry.  Wonder  what  it  is  now?"  When  he 
returned,  and  quietly  forsook  his  old  political  haunts, 
Micky's  sandy  eyebrows  were  skeptically  elevated  and 
he  murmured,  "Underground !  He'll  come  up  some 
where."  For  Micky  relied  upon  the  evidence  of  his 
keen  Irish  eyes.  Whether  the  act  was  committed  through 
arrangement  or  involuntarily,  Shaughnessy  had  winked. 
O'Byrn  reasoned  that  winks  by  a  man  of  Shaughnessy's 
calibre  were  not  wasted.  Curious  that  a  "slick  duck"  like 
Grady,  as  Micky  characterized  that  smooth  orator,  had 
required  a  wink.  Perhaps  he  hadn't,  perhaps  Shaugh 
nessy  had  simply  grown  over-anxious  during  the  short 
interval  between  the  speeches.  Well,  if  Shaughnessy 
had  grown  unwittingly  careless,  that  was  his  look-out, 
his  and  O'Byrn's.  O'Byrn  was  looking  out.  He  had 
said  nothing  and  he  was  devoutly  hopeful  that  he  would 
have  a  chance  to  saw  wood. 

He  was  at  Maisie's  one  evening,  one  of  his  customary 
"off-nights."  These  nights  were  coming  to  him  of  late 
as  oases  in  the  deserts  of  weeks.  They  had  chatted, 
talked  seriously  of  their  plans,  sung  together  to  Maisie'i 
accompaniment  on  the  little  organ,  and  now  Micky  re 
gretfully  rose,  with  a  glance  at  his  watch.  "Well,  girl/' 
said  he,  "I've  got  to  slide.  It's  gettin'  late.  Your  pa'll 
be  assistin'  me." 

She  watched  him  with  wistful  blue  eyes,  loth  that  he 
leave,  though  she  knew  the  hour  beckoned  his  departure. 
He  stood  near  the  big  lamp  with  its  red  shade,  his  queer 
features  being  mellowed,  so  to  speak,  in  the  ruddy  glow. 
He  grinned  benignly  at  her  as  he  reached  for  his  coat. 
Anticipating  him,  she  helped  him  into  it. 

"Oh,  dear !"  sjie  exclaimed  rebelliously,  "isn't  it  the 


126  THE  LASH 

worst  ever,  this  newspaper  business!  And  a  morning 
paper  at  that,  with  your  hours  turned  wrong  side  out  and 
a  night  off  only  once  in  an  age !  Micky,  dear,  why  don't 
you  get  into  something  civilized?" 

"You  know,  Maisie,  the  Constitution  says  all  men  were 
created  equal,"  he  observed  soberly. 

"Sure  it  does,  but  what's  that  got  to  do  with  it  ?  What 
are  you  up  to  now?" 

"Why,  nothin',"  he  replied,  an  impish  twinkle  in  his 
eye,  "only  it  depends.  One  man  may  be  as  good  as 
another,  but  it's  up  to  him  to  prove  it.  A  bunch  of 
Socialist  Democrats,  in  a  town  I  was  in  once,  put  up 
a  hostler  for  city  judge  against  a  couple  of  old  lawyers 
on  the  regular  tickets.  Said  a  hostler  was  as  good  as 
a  lawyer  in  this  free  country.  True  enough,  in  a  limited 
sense.  I  know  a  lot  of  hostlers  that  are  better  hostlers 
than  a  lot  of  lawyers  that  are  lawyers.  I  suppose  you 
follow  me?  But,  all  the  same,  these  fellows  were  lame 
in  their  argument  for  this  reason.  Their  hostler  candi 
date  might  have  had  horse  sense  to  burn,  but  he  hadn't 
read  law.  There's  a  lot  of  difference  between  horse 
sense  and  the  law,  Maisie.  They  finally  took  the  hostler 
off  and  put  a  cobbler  on,  who  came  in  last.  Now  don't 
strike  me,  Maisie,  that  last  was  accidental.  Really,  I 
didn't  intend  it." 

"I  should  hope  not !"  with  sincerity.  "But  I  don't  see 
what  all  this  rigmarole  has  to  do  with  what  we  are  say 
ing,  or  were.  Have  you  lost  your  mind?" 

"If  ever  I  did,  the  finder  would  return  it,"  he  retorted 
whimsically.  "It  would  make  him  dizzy.  But  to  return 
to  cases,  what  I  said  has  got  everything  to  do  with  what 
we  said.  Can't  see  it?  Well,  men  may  be  created  equal 


A  WAGER  127 

but  most  of  'em  never  learn  arithmetic.  The  fellow  who 
does  has  got  'em  stopped.  He  keeps  on  addin',  while 
they — oh,  they're  just  multiplyin'  every  minute.  They're 
all  around  you,  I'm  one  of  'em  myself.  The  mathematical 
sharp,  who  made  a  specialty  on  finance  and  knows  the 
idiosyncrasies  of  a  dollar  better  than  a  mother  knows  her 
child,  keeps  on  subtractin'  the  other  fellows  from  their 
money.  When  it  comes  to  the  division,  why  they're  all 
vvorkin'  for  him.  That's  Rockefeller,  and  by  the  same 
token,  that's  me.  We're  the  limit  on  the  extremes.  He's 
got  everything  and  I'm  livin'  on  the  rest.  I've  got  noth- 
in'  and  he's  got  it.  See? 

"There's  a  happy  medium,  but  it  doesn't  help  the  ma 
jority  much,  for  most  of  us  are  on  pay  rolls.  For  in 
stance,  one  man  owns  the  Courier  and  the  rest  of  us  are 
working  for  him.  If  I  changed  to  something  else,  I'd 
still  be  vvorkin'  for  someone.  Why?  Because  the  only 
line  in  arithmetic  in  which  I  could  make  good  was  a 
sequence  of  ciphers  with  no  bigger  figure  before  it.  You 
catch  the  point,  don't  you?  It's  due  to  the  mercenary 
age.  Nominally  I'm  free  and  equal.  Actually  I'm  about 
a  'steenth  of  one  per  cent.  See?  But  what's  the  dif? 
What  you  need  in  this  dizzy  old  world  is  philosophy. 
I've  got  it  to  burn,  but  Standard  Oil  can't  scorch  it. 
Here's  a  motto  for  you,  Maisie,  and  you  can  paste  it  in 
that  funny  new  jigger  you  call  a  hat.  It'll  keep  you 
smilin'  on  wash  day,  and  that's  a  test  for  a  woman.  It's 
just  this  :  take  it  as  it  comes,  and,  if  it  doesn't  come,  don't 
take  it." 

He  was  gone,  this  queer  little  man-gamin  of  vagrant 
moods,  shifting  as  the  winds,  yet  for  the  most  bubbling 
with  reckless  cheeriness.  Humor  was  the  predominant 


128  THE  LASH 

note  of  his  being.  Its  broad  grace  mellowed  him ;  would 
keep  him  sound  and  sweet  at  heart,  whatever  the  sum 
of  the  coming  years.  Did  the  winds  blow  fair  or  ill,  he 
had  within  him  the  essence  of  logical  living ;  a  whimsical 
sense  of  proportion  that  enabled  him  to  view  himself  im 
partially  with  all  others,  one  of  myriad  puppets  in  the 
show.  A  success  or  a  failure  he  might  become,  as  the 
world  judges,  but  until  the  end  he  would  be  too  large 
for  that  littleness  which  is  too  often  a  hallmark  of  success, 
the  littleness  of  petty  vanity.  So,  with  this  greatest  gift 
the  Creator  can  give  one  of  his  children,  the  humorous 
sense  of  proportion  that  can  make  if  need  be  a  joke  of 
futility,  Micky  would  go  on  to  the  end,  to  success  or 
failure ;  alike  with  heart  uncankered  and  a  laugh  on  hi* 
lips.  There  would  never  transpire  a  misanthropic  Micky. 
For  a  long  time  after  O'Byrn's  departure,  Maisie  sat 
still  in  the  Morris  chair,  a  pensive  look  on  her  pretty  face, 
with  vague  eyes  bent  dreamily  on  the  flaming  wood  in  the 
tiny  fireplace ;  for  the  nights  had  grown  chill  with  the 
first  presage  of  winter  and  the  fenders  glowed  with  warm 
hospitality  on  company  nights.  The  busy  flames  licked 
the  blackened  slabs ;  hurrying  over  the  charred,  desolate 
spaces ;  leaping  in  triumph  as  a  conquered  fragment  fell, 
under  the  espionage  of  a  shower  of  scintillant  sparks.  The 
tongues  of  flame,  with  redoubled  energy,  again  lapped  the 
wood,  eating  into  its  vitals,  withering  its  fibres  with  fiery 
breath,  crumbling  it  piecemeal  in  a  crematory  of  elemental 
ashes.  At  last,  always  working  upward,  the  flames  burst 
exultantly  from  scorched  fissures  in  the  topmost  slab  and 
curled  in  weird  shapes  above  it ;  shapes  that  now  ap 
proached  a  certain  sane  coherence;  that  again  were  in 
determinate  and  distorted,  vaguely  writhing  in  a  dim 


A  WAGER  129 

haze,  like  one's  future.  Finally  the  fire,  spending  its 
force,  dulled  and  died,  the  ruddy  flames  slowly  paling 
like  the  fading  roses  of  a  summer  sunset.  Then  there 
was  the  black,  desolate  end  ;  all  light  extinguished  save  for 
the  baleful,  red-eyed  glare  of  a  few  scattered  embers, 
dying  on  the  hearth.  Maisie  sat  erect  with  a  sudden  start, 
stealing  an  apprehensive  glance  at  the  clock.  With  a 
long  sigh  and  a  little  shiver,  she  rose  slowly,  extinguished 
the  low-turned  lamp  and  departed  for  bed. 

Meanwhile,  Micky,  a  red-eyed  cigar  in  a  corner  of  his 
mouth,  had  walked  leisurely  and  thoughtfully  toward  the 
city.  His  hands  thrust  deep  in  his  overcoat  pockets,  he 
strode  unheedingly  on,  lost  in  a  wistful  reverie.  What  a 
flower  was  this  little  girl  of  his,  to  be  sure!  And  he — 
what  had  he  done  to  deserve  her  ?  A  little  self-examina 
tion  is  good  for  a  man,  especially  if  it  be  followed  by  a 
little  proper  self-disgust.  O'Byrn  walked  on  in  singu 
larly  chastened  mood.  The  past  ?  Ah,  it  was  done ;  why 
waste  time  in  regrets  when  one  is  young?  The  present 
was  of  sunshine  in  a  blue  sky  ;  the  future — 

O'Byrn's  shoulders  rose  in  a  little,  involuntary,  uneasy 
shrug.  He  turned  a  corner  just  then  and  looked  up. 
The  next  instant  he  had  retired  unobtrusively  into  a  dark 
hallway,  where  he  stood,  staring  across  the  street. 

O'Byrn  could  scarcely  have  explained  his  definite  im 
pulse  for  doing  this.  It  was  simply  the  half-unconscious 
manifestation  of  the  news  instinct.  Without  any  needed 
pause  for  reasoning,  Micky's  news  faculty  had  connected 
two  apparently  irrelevant  facts  as  significantly  allied  with 
each  other,  prompting  him  to  remain  in  the  hope  of  secur 
ing  something  worth  while.  The  wholesale  liquor  estab 
lishment  of  Shaughnessy  stood  just  across  the  street.  The 


130  THE  LASH 

curtains  of  the  office  were  drawn,  but  O'Byrn  saw  the 
reflection  of  a  light  behind  them.  Furthermore,  the 
sound  which  had  brought  Micky  to  a  realization  of  his 
surroundings,  a  moment  before,  was  that  of  a  carriage, 
which  had  been  halted  a  little  way  up  the  dark  street,  the 
corner  of  which  O'Byrn  had  just  turned.  So  O'Byrn 
stood  in  the  shadow,  watching  Shaughnessy's  office. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait.  A  few  moments  and  he 
beheld  the  corner  of  one  of  the  office  window  shades 
drawn  slightly  to  one  side.  Somebody  was  evidently 
looking  out.  Nobody  was  in  sight,  for  the  street  was  a 
quiet  one  and  was  deserted  at  that  hour.  The  next 
moment  the  door  was  opened  cautiously  and  a  man 
emerged.  Crossing  the  street  swiftly  he  passed  by 
O'Byrn  so  closely  that  the  reporter  could  have  touched 
him,  and  turned  the  corner.  Then  was  soon  audible  the 
sound  of  receding  wheels. 

O'Byrn  whistled  softly  as  he  resumed  his  walk  toward 
the  city.  The  light  of  the  aroused  news  instinct  was  in 
his  eyes.  Here  was  something  tangible,  bearing  out 
surmises  that  had  seemed  wild  to  himself.  What  need 
had  Judge  Boynton,  the  esteemed  Democratic  candidate 
for  mayor,  to  be  secretly  in  the  office  of  the  deposed  boss, 
Shaughnessy  ?  Deposed,  indeed  !  Micky  laughed  softly, 
then  clenched  his  hands. 

"Oh,  if  I  can  only  get  onto  it !"  he  breathed  savagely. 
"Whew !  Lord !  Lord !  What  a  story  !" 

Had  Micky  chanced  to  look  around  at  that  moment  he 
might  have  seen  a  man  following  him,  who,  had  O'Byrn 
known  it,  could  have  given  him  some  interesting  and 
definite  pointers  on  that  desired  story.  The  man  had 
emerged  from  around  the  corner  of  Shaughnessy's  build- 


A  WAGER  131 

ing  a  moment  after  Judge  Boynton  left  and  Micky  had 
started  down  the  street.  Gaining  the  opposite  side  of 
the  thoroughfare,  the  fellow,  who  had  evidently  been 
eavesdropping,  followed  O'Byrn,  keeping  some  distance 
in  the  rear,  until  a  point  was  reached  where  Micky  turned 
to  go  toward  the  Courier  office.  The  other  man  kept 
straight  on. 

A  little  later,  as  he  had  figured  upon  doing,  Micky  met 
some  of  the  boys  in  a  lunch  room  which  they  were  wont 
to  visit  at  that  hour.  Dick  was  there,  and  Mead  and 
Fatty  Stearns.  The  latter  was  talking. 

"Gee!"  exclaimed  Fatty,  breathlessly,  while  the  ex 
pletive  blew  a  formidable  charge  of  bread  crumbs  toward 
the  shrinking  company,  "but  there'll  be  doin's  this  elec 
tion !  There'll  be  doin's!  Watcha  think,  Micky?" 

"I  think  you  need  an  interpreter,  Fatty,  when  you  try 
to  talk  with  your  mouth  full,"  replied  O'Byrn.  "Don't 
talk,  Fatty.  You  sound  like  a  dog  that's  trying  to  breathe 
in  July ;  you  do,  really.  One  of  those  expectorating 
dogs." 

"Gee!  What's  those?"  demanded  Fatty,  helplessly. 
"Spitz!"  replied  Micky,  and  dodged  a  crust  launched  by 
the  justly  indignant  Glenwood. 

"Cheese  it,  fellows,"  put  in  Mead.  "About  this  elec 
tion.  Fusion's  got  no  chance  now.  Judge  Boynton  '11 
win  in  a  walk." 

"For  how  much?"  in  a  flash.  O'Byrn's  hand  was  in 
his  pocket. 

"Well,"  remarked  Mead,  reflectively,  "I'm  not  exactly 
lined  with  dough,  but  I'll  put  an  X  on  it.  Have  to 
stipulate  that  it's  a  futurity,  though ;  for,  needless  to  say, 


132  THE  LASH 

I  haven't  as  much  as  that  in  my  clothes  three  days  after 
pay  day." 

"Neither  have  I,"  laughed  O'Byrn.  "This  diggin' 
down  was  a  bluff.  But  I'll  see  your  ten  all  right.  This 
bum  line  of  witnesses  will  take  notice.  Loser  touches 
someone  to  pay  the  winner.  All  fine  'nd  dandy." 

Mead  acquiesced,  albeit  with  an  implied  something  of 
uncertainty  in  his  demeanor.  The  rotund  Stearns  voiced 
it  in  nervous  words. 

"Gee!  Mead,"  he  exclaimed,  "you're  a  chump  to  bet 
your  stuff  on  another  fellow's  game." 

"Go  die  somewhere,  Fatty,"  suggested  Micky.  "There's 
no  game  yet,  but,"  with  a  queer  grin  at  Mead,  "there's 
going  to  be  before  this  thing's  over.  Want  to  renig, 
Mead  ?  Can  if  you  want  to." 

"No!"  indignantly  rejoined  Mead.  "I'll  see  it  through. 
If  you  really  have  something  in  your  Irish  sleeve,  O'Byrn, 
I'll  bet  it's  worth  the  money." 

"Nothin'  yet,"  murmured  Micky,  as  they  prepared  to 
depart,  "but  I  tell  you,  boys,  that  sleeve's  a  Christinas 
stockin'  just  now,  and  I'm  gettin'  eye-strain  watchin'  for 
Santa  Claus." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A    DISCREDITED    HENCHMAN 

MICKY  strolled  into  the  Courier's  local  room 
one  evening,  and,  after  hanging  up  his  over 
coat  and  hat,  removed  also  his  under  coat  and 
unbuttoned  his  vest.     He  then  leisurely  de 
tached  his  cuffs  and  rolled  up  his  shirt  sleeves,  to  get 
arm-room,  as  he  used  to  term  it.     Then,  having  indulged 
a  taste  for  preliminaries  which  he  was  fond  of  observing, 
whenever  he  had  the  time,  he  sailed  in.     A  half  hour 
later  he  had  finished  his  task  and  turned  in  the  copy. 
There  was  a  temporary  lull,  and  O'Byrn  leaned  back  in 
his  chair,  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  red  head,  and 
dreamily  watched  the  rings  of  smoke  wreathing  upward 
from  the  tip  of  his  cigar. 

"Wherever  did  you  get  a  gash  like  that?"  inquired 
a  voice  behind  him,  and  Micky  felt  a  finger  touch  his 
wrist.  Mead,  who  also  chanced  to  be  disengaged  at  the 
moment,  took  an  adjacent  chair  and  stretched  himself  out 
comfortably  for  a  chat. 

Micky  lazily  extended  his  right  arm  and  bestowed  a 
curious  glance  upon  a  long,  livid  scar,  just  above  the 
wrist.  "Oh,  that?"  he  answered.  "That  was  an  acci 
dent.  Got  it  when  I  was  too  young  to  remember. 
Beastly  night,  eh?" 

"Yes,  trying  to  blow  up  a  nasty  rain,  I  guess. 
Where've  you  been  tonight?" 


134  THE  LASH 

"Oh,  out  in  society,"  grinned  Micky.  "Harkins  sent 
me  to  do  that  Van  Courts'  recep'  'nd  ball.  Careless 
servants,  though.  I  was  glad  to  get  away  alive." 

"Why?" 

"Well,  I  was  discreetly  in  the  background,  of  course, 
and  was  edging  across  to  get  a  better  view  when  I  fell 
over  a  pile  of  things  on  the  floor  that  they'd  failed  to 
brush  up.  Hostess  gave  'em  the  glacial  eye." 

"I  should  think  she  would,"  warmly  commented  Mead. 
"What  was  the  stuff?" 

"Why,  a  bunch  of  ultras  had  just  been  standing  there," 
demurely  explained  O'Byrn,  "and  I  fell  over  the  dropped 
r's,  that's  all." 

Mead  viewed  him  darkly.  "You  ought  to  be  killed,"  he 
remarked.  "Such  cheap  and  unseemly  levity  is  unworthy 
of  one  who  is  pursuing  this  honorable,  elevating,  expand 
ing  career  of  journalism."  This  with  an  oratorical 
flourish. 

A  shadow  of  seriousness  crept  into  O'Byrn's  twinkling 
eyes.  "Of  course  you're  in  fun,  in  a  way,"  he  told 
Mead,  "but,  just  the  same,  you're  inclined  to  take  your 
'mission'  seriously.  My  boy,  you're  due  to  shed  a  raft 
of  illusions.  You'll  find  this  'career,'  as  you  call  it,  is  a 
good  deal  like  a  hobby  horse.  Pleasant  motion,  but 
doesn't  land  you  anywhere.  There's  nothin'  to  it.  I 
heard  you  talking  the  other  day  about  'the  great  equip 
ment  it  gives  a  fellow  for  a  start  in  life.'  That's  all  right 
if  taken  in  time,  like  the  measles,  but  let  me  tell  you 
something.  You  stick  at  this,  and  stick  and  stick,  and 
by  the  time  you're  ready  for  that  start,  you'll  be  backin' 
up. 

"You  were  a  cub  a  while  ago,  Mead,  and  you  made 


A   DISCREDITED   HENCHMAN  135 

good.  Naturally  you  feel  good  about  that,  for  a  lot  of 
'em  don't.  Well,  you  needn't  feel  good.  You've  got  the 
germ,  and  it's  fatal.  You're  to  be  pitied,  for  you're  thor 
oughly  en  rapport  with  the  job." 

O'Byrn  had  warmed  to  his  subject ;  his  cigar  stub  de 
scribed  wild  flourishes.  "I  knew  a  young  fellow  once,  in 
the  middle  west,  who  went  into  the  reporting  line. 
Brighter'n  a  dollar  and  full  of  ambition  and  the  oppor 
tunity  hop.  Tried  hard,  but  hadn't  the  nose,  couldn't 
make  good  nohow.  Old  man  called  him  up  on  the  carpet 
one  day.  Old  man  went  it  for  a  while  and  then  the 
gosling  got  a  chance  for  a  squawk. 

"  'Why,'  says  he  in  an  injured  way,  'I  cover  my  as 
signments.' 

"'  'Oh,  yes,'  snaps  the  old  man, — and  he  was  one  of  the 
best  in  the  business, — 'you're  all  right  on  the  stereotype, 
tellin'  the  people  what  they  already  know  about.  Any 
lunkhead  can  report  a  baby  show.  The  mothers  are 
there  to  tell  him  about  it.  But  that's  only  half  the  game. 
The  other  and  the  hardest  half  is  in  diggin'  out  and  tellin' 
'em  what  they  don't  know  about.  That's  what  you're 
for  and  it's  where  you  fall  down.' 

"Wrell,  the  old  man  fired  him.  He  was  lucky.  He's 
gettin'  the  salary  of  three  of  us  now  and  he's  gettin'  it 
out  of  straight  life.  Manages  a  district.  The  old  man 
who  fired  him  died  a  while  ago.  Next  time  my  friend 
passed  through  that  town  he  stopped  off,  just  to  shed 
some  tears  of  gratitude  on  the  old  man's  grave. 

"Oh,  you  grin  now,  Mead,  and  you're  thinkin'  to  your 
self  'Old  Carrots,  the  senile  cynic.'  But  just  you  stick  at 
it,  and  fail  to  sidestep  the  Juggernaut,  and  in  years  to 
come  you'll  remember  the  words  your  Uncle  Mike  is  now 


136  THE  LASH 

addressin'  to  you  and  you'll  feel  the  same  sentiment  the 
old  farmer  from  up  north  wrote  on  the  back  of  a  check. 

"Never  heard  of  it?  Well,  it's  true.  Old  fellow  was 
from  Clayville  Corners.  Got  a  check  one  day  for  some 
thing.  Never  saw  anything  like  that  before  ;  always  took 
his  money  straight.  Someone  told  him  to  take  it  into 
town  and  get  it  cashed  at  the  bank.  So  he  blows  in  and 
shoves  the  slip  in  front  of  the  cashier.  Cashier  says, 
'You'll  have  to  indorse  this.'  Old  man  was  rather  rattled 
but  stayed  game.  Took  it  over  to  the  desk  and  scribbled 
on  the  back  this  sentiment : 

"  'i  hartily  Indors  this  Chek.' 

"That'll  be  you,  Mead,  in  the  coming  days.  You'll 
think  what  Micky  told  you  and  you'll  heartily  indorse. 
But  it  won't  be  checks.  The  only  checks  you  get  in  this 
cussed  business  are  over-draws." 

"Nice,  roseate  view  you  take  of  your  calling,"  sar 
castically  remarked  Mead.  "Why  in  thunder  don't  you 
get  out  of  it?" 

Micky's  grin  was  illuminating  and  forgiving.  "Because 
I  can't  do  anything  else,"  he  admitted  frankly.  "But  you 
can.  Why  don't  you  ?  Try  politics.  It's  the  graft  these 
days.  Then  bimeby  you  can  retire,  like  Shaughnessy, 
and  will  never  have  to  work  anybody  any  more.  But 
just  you  stick  at  this  newspaper  stunt,  and  after  a  while 
you  find,  to  your  surprise,  that  'the  zest  and  thrill  of 
news  gettin'  which  is  the  fillip  of  the  reporter's  jaded  life' 
is  gettin'  a  dull  edge.  Of  course,  you're  older  than  you 
used  to  be,  and  that  explains  most  things,  includin'  the 
multiplyin'  of  troubles  that  come  to  you  while  you  wait. 
The  chiefest  one  is  in  your  speed.  It's  O.  K.  when  you're 
young  and  your  blood  is  boundin'.  You  feel  like  that 


A   DISCREDITED   HENCHMAN  137 

brute  owned  by  the  enthusiastic  French  Canadian.  He 
was  workin'  a  horse  trade,  and  says :  'Dat  hoss,  she  trot 
half-past  two.  He  no  trot  half-past  two,  I  give  you 
to  it!' 

"Now,  the  trouble  with  the  vet  reporter  is  that  by  the 
time  he  gets  to  an  age  that  is  considered  the  prime  of 
life  in  any  other  line,  why,  he  can't  half  trot  past  any 
body,  and  he  gets  scratched.  And  I  think  that  will  hold 
you  for  a  while,  Mead.  Think  it  over." 

O'Byrn  yawned,  glanced  at  the  clock,  and  rose.  "Well," 
said  he,  airily,  "I'm  off,  don't  you  know,  to  see  if  I  can 
find  something  to  make  me  forget  that  society  shindy.  Oh, 
ya-a-s !  Bubbles !  you  rude  fellah ;  there  now,  Bubbles ! 
Go  'way,  Mead.  You're  not  so  bad,  you  know,  but  you 
don't  belong.  Tra,  la !  old  chap,  be  good.  What  a  pity 
you  have  to  work  for  a  living!"  With  which  parting 
arrant  nonsense  O'Byrn  considerately  took  himself  off. 

Arrived  at  the  street,  Micky's  jovial  grin  faded  and  he 
walked  along  with  a  serious  air  that  had  been  far  more 
frequent  with  him  of  late.  There  was  a  sober-sided 
Micky  that  few  of  his  mates  knew.  Often  now,  when 
the  little  Irishman  was  alone,  the  reckless  light  would 
fade  in  the  blue  eyes,  leaving  them  unwontedly  serious  ; 
the  jovial  grin  would  quit  the  freckled  face,  to  be  re 
placed  by  that  pensive  shadow  that  tells  of  wistful, 
wondering  speculation  regarding  the  veiled  mystery  of 
futurity.  Such  the  spell  of  introspection  that  is  cast 
when  love  comes  to  one,  leading  to  grave  heart-searchings, 
to  the  tentative  facing  of  one's  soul.  There  is  as  much  of 
shadow  as  of  sunlight  in  the  path  of  true  love,  but  there 
is  substance  in  the  shadow. 

Micky   was    walking   swiftly   along,   oblivious    to   his 


138  THE  LASH 

animated  surroundings,  when  a  touch  upon  an  elbow  ar 
rested  his  attention.  He  glanced  up,  somewhat  bewil 
dered,  and  stopped.  One  of  Maisie's  brothers,  Tom,  was 
facing  him. 

"Hello,  O'Byrn,"  abruptly  remarked  Muldoon.  "Saw 
you  passing  me,  lookin'  dreamy-eyed,  so  I  stopped  you. 
Thought  you  might  want  to  know.  Maisie's  sick." 

"Sick !"  echoed  Micky,  a  scared  look  in  his  face. 
"Why,  what—" 

"Oh,  don't  worry  like  that."  reassuringly.  "We  called 
in  the  doctor;  he  says  there's  no  danger.  She'll  be  all 
right." 

"Yes,"  Micky  returned  anxiously,  "but  what's  the  mat 
ter,  man?  Why,  she  was  all  right  Friday  evening.  I 
was  there." 

"Yes,"  returned  her  brother,  "it  came  on  real  sudden. 
It's  that  fever  that's  going  around ;  she  came  down  last 
night.  But  she's  got  it  mild,  so  don't  you  worry.  It's 
too  late  now,  she's  asleep,  but  run  in  tomorrow  for  a 
minute  sometime,  can't  you?  It'll  do  her  good.  And 
don't  worry,  old  man."  With  a  hearty  slap  on  Micky's 
shoulder  Tom  passed  on. 

Micky  continued  on  his  way,  his  heart  heavy  with  the 
news.  Of  course,  she  was  not  in  danger,  but  illness  in 
itself  is  depressing  to  the  young.  They  hate  the  sound 
of  the  word ;  the  sight  of  suffering  inspires  in  them  an 
odd,  rebellious  impatience.  The  sun  is  needed  to  brighten 
the  gray  old  world ;  why  is  it  so  often  behind  a  cloud  ? 
"Poor  little  girl!"  murmured  Micky,  the  tears  starting  to 
his  eyes.  Why,  only  last  Friday  night  she  had  been  the 
picture  of  health  and  happiness,  and  they  had  sat  side  by 
side  on  the  little  sofa  and  talked  of  their  modest  plans. 


A  DISCREDITED  HENCHMAN  139 

Yes,  and  he  had  run  into  the  store  the  next  day  and 
chatted  with  her  for  a  moment.  And  now  she  lay  sick 
and  helpless  at  home.  A  great  wave  of  tenderness 
suffused  O'Byrn's  warm  Irish  heart.  Would  he  call  to 
see  her  for  a  moment  on  the  morrow  ?  Would  he  ? 

Micky  pressed  on  at  a  furious  pace,  impatiently  wink 
ing  smarting  eyes,  puffing  like  a  locomotive  at  a  cigar 
whose  end  flared  like  a  headlight.  For  the  moment  he 
was  oblivious  to  his  surroundings,  though  hurrying 
through  a  crowded,  brilliantly  lighted  street.  Mechani 
cally  he  turned  a  corner  into  a  darker  one.  A  moment 
more  and  he  was  recalled  to  earth  by  a  dry,  remembered 
voice,  a  voice  that  broke  disagreeably  in  upon  his  reverie. 

"Can  you  give  me  a  light?"  it  inquired,  as  Micky 
halted.  "You  seem  to  have  enough." 

Micky  proffered  his  raging  cigar  and  watched  the  man 
curiously  as  he  lighted  it.  Oddly  enough,  considering 
O'Byrn's  wide  acquaintance  since  his  brief  stay  in  town, 
the  two  had  never  met.  Under  the  dim  radiance  of  an 
adjacent  old  street  lamp,  Shaughnessy's  face  gleamed 
ghastly  white,  the  black  moustache  had  an  odd,  limp 
droop.  His  weed  lighted,  he  handed  Micky's  cigar  back 
with  a  slight  nod  of  acknowledgment  and  was  about  to 
turn  away. 

O'Byrn's  deviltry,  irrepressible  and  eternal,  asserted 
itself.  "You're  lookin'  bad,  Mr.  Shaughnessy,"  he  re 
marked  with  impudent  solicitude.  "Tain't  good  for  you, 
this  night  air.  Don't  you  go  to  them ;  you  don't  have  to. 
Make  'em  come  to  you." 

For  once  Shaughnessy's  impassive  mask  was  disturbed, 
which  Micky  noted  with  impish  satisfaction.  To  be  sure, 
it  was  not  much.  Where  many  a  face  would  have  been 


HO  THE  LASH 

curiously  distorted,  the  basilisk  eyes  of  Shaughnessy  just 
widened  and  glared  a  moment,  that  was  all.  Then  they 
narrowed  and  became  expressionless,  while  Shaughnessy 
deliberately  removed  his  cigar  from  his  mouth  and 
thoughtfully  emitted  a  cloud  of  smoke. 

"Who  are  you  ?"  he  inquired  casually. 

Micky  had  recourse  to  his  card  case.  "Allow  me,"  he 
remarked  politely. 

Shaughnessy  glanced  at  it  and  thrust  it  in  his  vest 
pocket.  "I've  heard  of  you,"  he  acknowledged.  "Fine 
night,  eh?  Good  evening."  He  moved  leisurely  away 
O'Byrn  hailed  him  and  he  turned. 

"I  haven't  one  of  your  cards,  Mr.  Shaughnessy,"  sug 
gested  Micky,  grinning  wickedly. 

Shaughnessy  vouchsafed  him  a  slight,  sneering  smile. 
"I  don't  think  you  need  it,"  he  retorted,  "but  I'm  glad, 
I'm  sure,  that  you  gave  me  yours."  He  passed  on  and 
turned  the  corner. 

Micky  was  a  veteran  newsgetter,  which  means  that  he 
was  also  a  good  detective.  Wary  as  Shaughnessy  was, 
he  could  not  have  known  that  he  was  being  shadowed, 
though  O'Byrn  noticed  him  several  times  casting  appre 
hensive  glances  to  the  rear.  He  smiled  grimly  at  the 
implied  tribute  to  his  reputation  and  discreetly  kept  out 
of  sight.  In  the  meantime  he  had  necessarily  dropped 
some  distance  behind  the  boss,  though  carefully  following 
him  as  he  traversed  successive  streets.  Suddenly,  how 
ever,  he  turned  sharply  at  a  cross-alley,  and  when  O'Byrn, 
hurrying  his  pace,  reached  there,  Shaughnessy  was 
nowhere  to  be  seen. 

Micky  stood  perplexed,  cursing  softly.  He  hurried  to 
the  end  of  the  alley  to  Lawrence  Street  and  looked  up  and 


A   DISCREDITED   HENCHMAN  141 

down  it,  without  result.  He  walked  aimlessly  here  and 
there  about  the  section,  but  no  glad  sight  of  Shaughnessy 
rewarded  his  keen  eyes. 

After  some  little  time,  however,  O'Byrn  saw  a  familiar 
figure  crossing  Lawrence  Street,  a  block  from  the  point 
where  the  alley  intersected.  The  Irishman  was  instantly 
alert,  for  the  man  was  former  Alderman  Goldberg. 
"Gad !"  muttered  Micky,  "the  woods  seem  to  be  full  of 
'retired'  politicians."  Gaining  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street,  Goldberg  turned  west  and  walked  about  two 
blocks,  with  O'Byrn  discreetly  behind,  across  the  way. 
Suddenly  Goldberg  disappeared  within  a  doorway.  Micky 
chuckled  softly. 

"Up  over  Hogan's,  eh?"  he  muttered.  "So  that's  the 
trysting  place."  He  must  investigate,  surely,  but  not 
just  now.  Perhaps  there  were  other  birds  of  the  sinister 
brood  to  arrive.  O'Byrn,  with  the  canny  discretion  born 
of  long  reportorial  experience,  lurked  for  the  present  in  a 
shadowed  doorway.  In  a  little  while  his  caution  was 
justified,  for  there  arrived  simultaneously  at  the  ''trysting 
place"  the  lanky  Dick  Peterson  and  the  rotund  Willie 
Shute,  known  to  Micky  for  the  precious  pair  of  political 
rascals  they  were.  "That  fake  convention !  Oh,  what  a 
bluff!"  breathed  the  Irishman,  with  a  definite  admiration 
in  his  subdued  tones.  One  could  honestly  admire  a 
masterly  coup  like  that,  nor  could  he  withhold  a  certain 
tribute  to  the  ability  of  the  scoundrel  responsible  for  it. 
Shaughnessy  was  a  genius,  burrowing  in  the  dark  places ; 
where  the  searching  sunlight  would  have  been  fatal. 

Micky  waited  a  little  longer,  but  the  circle  was  evi 
dently  complete.  They  would  not  naturally  keep  the 
boss  waiting  long,  for  O'Byrn  made  no  doubt  that  he  was 


142  THE  LASH 

with  them.  The  Irishman  was  fired  with  an  intense 
desire  to  hear  that  conference.  Already  he  knew  that 
Shaughnessy  was  there,  and  matters  were  proceeding 
under  the  same  masterly  hand  as  of  yore ;  only  it  was 
"the  hidden  hand"  now,  and  all  the  more  deadly  for  that 
reason.  O'Byrn  was  convinced  that  he  ought  to  be  an 
unnoted  auditor  of  that  meeting,  though  he  knew  there 
were  difficulties  in  the  way.  It  was  not  probable  that 
Hogan  neglected  precautions  against  any  possible  dis 
turbance  of  these  little  conferences,  for  it  was  a  natural 
supposition  that  he  had  his  orders  to  that  effect. 

However,  nothing  was  to  be  gained  by  standing  and 
speculating  about  it.  So  Micky,  with  sundry  unspoken 
prayers  for  immunity  from  a  broken  head,  crossed  the 
street  and  approached  the  doorway.  He  opened  the  door 
cautiously  and  slipped  inside.  By  a  single  gas  light, 
turned  religiously  low,  he  saw  the  white  aproned  form  of 
a  waiter  standing  at  the  head  of  the  flight  of  stairs.  In 
that  moment  the  man  started  down  stairs. 

The  way  to  the  cafe  was  through  a  long,  dark  passage, 
at  the  end  of  which  the  dim  gas  light  did  not  penetrate. 
In  an  instant  the  wily  O'Byrn  had  retreated  into  this 
passage,  where  he  flattened  against  the  wall.  The  sleeve 
of  the  waiter  brushed  his  body  as  that  worthy  passed  on 
into  the  cafe.  A  gust  of  boisterous  talk  and  tipsy  laugh 
ter  sounded  from  the  saloon  as  the  door  was  opened. 
Then  it  was  closed,  and  Micky,  without  a  second's  hesi 
tation,  made  for  the  stairs  and  crept  softly  up,  trusting  to 
luck. 

He  heard  a  murmur  of  voices  from  the  larger  of  the 
two  rooms  that  faced  a  narrow  hall,  which  in  turn  looked 
out  upon  a  side  street  through  its  two  small  windows. 


A  DISCREDITED   HENCHMAN  143 

Between  the  two  rooms  there  was  a  narrow  passage, 
terminating  in  a  flight  of  steep  stairs  which  led  down 
into  Hogan's  kitchen.  These  stairs  were  seldom  used. 
The  building,  an  architectural  anomaly  in  the  first  place, 
had  been  further  mangled  by  the  odd  ideas  of  Hogan. 

Micky  slipped  around  into  this  friendly  little  passage 
way  just  as  the  waiter  came  up  stairs  with  a  loaded  tray. 
Micky  heard  him  knock,  enter  the  room,  and  shortly  re 
turn.  To  his  disgust  the  Irishman  failed  to  hear  the 
waiter's  descending  footsteps.  Evidently  he  was  sup 
posed  to  stand  guard  and  see  that  the  coast  was  kept  clear. 

Micky  swore  silently.  Then  he  made  a  discovery  which 
filled  him  with  glee.  The  light  streamed  from  the  all- 
important  room  through  an  aperture  high  in  the  wall ; 
evidently  a  disused  stovepipe  hole,  which  Hogan  had 
carelessly  forgotten  to  cover  after  he  put  in  his  furnace. 
More  than  this,  Micky  noted,  in  the  dim  light  of  other 
gas  jets  in  the  hall  outside,  that  directly  under  this  hole 
stood  a  small  but  substantial  table,  on  exceptionally  high 
legs. 

To  noiselessly  gain  the  top  of  the  table  occupied  but 
an  instant  for  the  agile  Irishman.  His  eager,  freckled 
face  was  thrust  close  to  the  observatory.  He  had  a  swift 
glimpse  of  that  precious  group,  the  charmed  circle  com 
plete,  and  then  occurred  a  thing  that  froze  his  blood. 

Suddenly  Goldberg,  Goldberg  of  the  illimitable  brow, 
sprang  to  his  feet  with  shaking  fist  and  crimsoned  face. 
He  extended  his  arm ;  the  swollen  fist  resolved  itself  into 
a  single  accusing  finger,  pointed  straight  at  O'Byrn. 
Goldberg's  little  pig  eyes  shot  fire,  he  glared  murderously 
at  the  stove  pipe  hole.  "Oh,  you  spy!  you  damned  spy!" 
he  yelled.  Micky  waited  to  hear  no  more. 


'44  THE  LASH 

He  gained  the  floor  at  a  jump  and  swung  around  the 
corner.  The  unsuspecting  waiter  stood  directly  between 
him  and  the  front  stairs.  Micky  lowered  his  head  and 
charged  like  a  lively  little  bull.  The  dazed  waiter  crashed 
to  the  floor  and  Micky  gained  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  in 
three  bounds. 

In  that  very  instant,  however,  the  sound  of  a  loud  com 
motion,  a  volley  of  curses,  came  from  above.  Instead  of 
gaining  the  street,  O'Byrn  instinctively  retreated  into  the 
dark  passage  between  the  stairs  and  the  cafe,  where  he 
crouched  and  waited.  The  next  moment,  with  a  succes 
sion  of  bumps,  some  object  came  thudding  down  the  stairs 
and  reached  the  bottom  with  a  deep  groan.  There  was  a 
rush  of  feet  on  the  landing  above,  eager  to  follow. 

In  a  flash  O'Byrn  had  sprung  forward,  turning  off  the 
single  gas  jet,  flinging  the  door  wide  open.  Then,  as 
a  second  heavy  body  came  tumbling  down  the  stairs, 
evidently  through  a  stumble  in  the  darkness,  O'Byrn 
stooped,  and  gathering  a  limp,  senseless  form  in  his  arms, 
gained  the  street.  Dragging  his  burden,  he  wheeled  into 
the  adjoining  alley.  He  heard  swift  footsteps  in  the 
street.  Goldberg  hurried  by,  limping  and  cursing.  He 
it  was  who  had  fallen  down  stairs. 

Micky  chuckled.  "  'Twasn't  me  they  were  after,  at  all," 
he  muttered.  Then  he  bent  low,  gazing  sharply  into  the 
white  face  of  his  senseless  burden.  He  gave  a  start  of 
surprise. 

It  was  Slade. 


CHAPTER  XV 

USEFUL    INFORMATION 

O'BYRN'S  eyes  glistened.     Here  were  possibili 
ties,  to  be  sure,  but  the  first  thing  to  do  was 
to  get  out  of  that  quarter,  which  might  be  too 
warm  for  comfort  in  a  few  minutes.     Even  as 
the   reflection   struck   him,   Micky  backed   close  against 
the  wall,  in  the  deepest  shadows,  as  a  man  rushed  past 
him    through    the    alley.     It   was    Dick    Peterson.     The 
whole  gang  must  be  out  looking   for   Slade.     To   add 
to  the   discomfort  of  the   situation,  the   weather   made 
good  its  threat  of  many  hours'  standing  and  it  began  to 
rain.     Slade   lay  inert,   still   unconscious   from   the   fall. 
Micky  scratched  his  head  in  deep  perplexity.     He  had 
no  intention  of  leaving  the  fellow,  but  what  should  he  do 
with  him  ? 

Fortune  was  kind.  At  that  moment  a  cab  swung  into 
the  alley  from  Lawrence  Street  at  a  leisurely  pace.  The 
driver  was  evidently  taking  a  short  cut  to  more  travelled 
thoroughfares.  O'Byrn  halted  him  and  invoked  his  as 
sistance  in  loading  Slade  into  the  vehicle.  "My  friend's 
drunk,"  he  laconically  explained,  to  which  the  cabby 
grunted  a  gruff  assent. 

Slade  had  recovered  his  jarred  senses  by  the  time  the 
cab  arrived  at  a  point  near  Micky's  lodging,  and  the  Irish 
man  prudently  stopped  the  driver,  and  paying  him,  dis- 


146  THE  LASH 

missed  him.  It  would  never  do  to  leave  a  clear  trail  for 
Shaughnessy's  gang,  should  they  chance  to  stumble  upon 
it  at  all.  He  asked  the  still  dazed  Slade  to  wait  for  him 
a  few  minutes  in  an  adjacent  drug  store  while  he  hur 
ried  over  to  the  city  hall,  which  was  near  at  hand,  and 
telephoned  the  Courier  office,  informing  Mr.  Harkins  that 
he  had  a  chance  for  a  future  "beat"  that  would  have  to  be 
improved  at  once,  and  he  wouldn't  be  back.  "All  right, 
keep  at  work  on  it.  We  won't  need  you,"  Harkins  tele 
phoned,  and  Micky  rejoined  Slade. 

He  piloted  Slade  to  his  lodgings,  took  him  to  his  room, 
lighted  his  gas  heater  and  the  two  jets  and  installed  his 
guest  in  the  big  easy  chair  which  the  room  boasted.  He 
took  the  rocker  himself,  drawing  it  confidentially  close  to 
Slade's  chair.  He  then  produced  cigars,  holding  a  match 
for  Slade  to  light  his  weed.  "Smoke  up,  old  man,"  re 
marked  Micky,  cordially.  "It'll  be  comfortably  warm 
here  in  a  few  minutes.  Stretch  out  and  pull  yourself  to 
gether.  You  got  a  nasty  fall."  Slade  smiled  slightly, 
without  words,  and  arranged  himself  luxuriously  in  the 
big  chair,  puffing  thoughtfully  at  his  weed.  A  pleasant 
glow  stole  through  the  room.  Micky,  also  puffing 
methodically,  was  silent  as  his  companion,  philosophically 
waiting  for  the  spirit  to  move.  Cautiously  watching 
Slade,  he  was  gratified  to  see  a  sullen,  smouldering  fire 
in  the  queer  black  eyes,  ordinarily  as  indifferent  as  a 
Chinaman's.  Slade  would  evidently  be  in  a  confidential 
mood  in  a  few  moments,  and  Micky  could  well  afford  to 
wait. 

Not  many  newspaper  men  could  have  expected  Nick 
Slade,  accredited  heeler  for  the  Shaughnessy  gang,  to 
wax  confidential,  under  any  circumstances,  to  a  represen- 


USEFUL  INFORMATION  147 

tative  of  the  press.  His  very  presence  at  that  moment, 
in  the  room  of  a  reporter  of  the  Courier,  of  all  papers,  was 
anomalous.  But  O'Byrn  was  shrewd.  He  had  learned 
early  that  success  for  the  reporter  on  a  daily  newspaper 
depends  on  his  being  all  things  to  all  men.  Tact  is  the 
little  key  that  unlocks  all  doors.  A  hundred  different 
plans  of  campaign  are  needed  for  a  hundred  different 
men,  yet  every  man  must  be  met  on  a  broad  and  common 
field  of  friendliness.  Anything  short  of  that  curtails  the 
reporter's  field  of  usefulness.  One  shorter  sighted  than 
Micky  would  perhaps  have  avoided  making  Slade's  ac 
quaintance  in  the  beginning,  on  the  ground  that  he  was 
not  a  respectable  person.  To  be  sure  he  was  not.  Slade 
himself  would  be  the  last  to  question  the  impeachment. 
Because  of  this  very  lack  of  respectability,  Slade's  good 
graces  were  valuable  to  Micky,  for  a  large  proportion  of 
the  news  that  the  public  revels  in  is  garnered  from  the 
ranks  of  the  non-respectable.  There  is  little  in  the  life 
of  your  ordinary,  respectable  citizen  to  keep  the  type 
setters  busy,  for  there  is  nothing  sensational  in  virtue 
unless  it  be  possessed  by  a  politician.  Then  it  is  inexplica 
ble.  But  the  record  of  the  ordinary  esteemed  citizen  can 
usually  be  summed  up  in  the  horns  of  life's  trilemma : 
birth,  marriage  and  death,  unless,  indeed,  he  excels  at 
golf.  The  newspapers  still  devote  considerable  space 
to  it. 

Slade  knew  the  men  who  made  much  of  the  real  news 
of  the  town,  the  news  with  fat  head-lines.  To  be  sure, 
many  of  them  figured  in  it  unwillingly,  but  that  was  a 
minor  consideration,  for  their  doings  often  made  and 
sold  extras.  Chance  had  thrown  Slade  in  Micky's  way 
early  in  the  Irishman's  career  in  the  town,  and  the  re- 


148  THE  LASH 

porter's  trained  journalistic  sense  told  him  that  Slade's 
confidence  would  be  valuable.  So  it  had  been.  The 
episode  in  Goldberg's  saloon,  when  Slade  evaded  wrath 
that  fell  upon  the  luckless  head  of  O'Byrn,  had  not  ended 
their  acquaintance.  Micky  had  found  occasion  to  do 
Slade  some  good  turns  since  then.  And  now  Slade, — 
from  ambuscade,  to  be  sure,  but  none  the  less  effectively, — 
was  destined  to  reciprocate  tenfold. 

Slade  had  been  a  heeler  for  the  gang.  It  was  not  an 
important  post,  affording  a  pose  in  the  limelight,  but  that 
fact  had  its  compensations.  Evidently  Slade,  in  trying, 
perhaps,  to  fit  himself  surreptitiously  for  larger  responsi 
bilities,  had  come  to  grief.  And,  as  Micky  watched  him, 
smoking  in  the  big  chair,  he  noted  a  fire  of  sullen  resent 
ment  kindling  in  Slade's  eyes. 

"Say,  old  man,"  inquired  Slade  suddenly,  "where'd  you 
pick  me  up  tonight  ?  How'd  you  happen  to  connect  with 
me,  anyway  ?" 

Micky  grinned.  "Why,  I  was  up  to  the  same  game 
you  were,  I  guess,"  he  explained.  "Shaughnessy  passed 
me  tonight,  and,  though  I'd  never  met  him,  I  couldn't 
help  throwin'  the  con'  into  him  a  little,  just  for  luck. 
I'd  seen  some  things,  you  know,  and  I  guess  he  was 
next  to  what  I  was  drivin'  at,  all  right.  But  he  never 
turned  a  hair  and  went  on,  with  me  doin'  a  quick  sneak 
after  him.  I  missed  him  finally,  but  some  of  his  gang 
blew  along,  and  after  a  while  I  was  up  stairs  in  Hogan's, 
perched  on  a  table  and  rubberin'  through  a  hole  in  the 
wall.  All  of  a  sudden  up  jumps  Goldberg,  yellin'  some 
thing  about  a  spy,  and  I  thought  I  was  copped  for  fair. 
I  was  down  stairs  in  three  shakes,  and  I  went  through  a 
waiter  like  a  halfback  to  do  it.  I  was  just  about  to 


USEFUL  INFORMATION  149 

breathe  the  open  when  you  bumped  along  down.  You 
were  dead  to  the  world  when  I  dragged  you  out,  I  guess, 
and  I  kept  you  out  of  sight  of  the  gang, — which  was 
looking  for  you,  my  boy, — till  I  got  the  cab.  And  here 
you  are.  Goldberg's  as  good  a  bouncer  as  his  man 
Mulligan,  ain't  he  ?" 

"Goldberg?"  echoed  Slade.  "Nit,  young  feller,  he 
never  touched  me.  They  were  all  grabbin'  for  me  at 
once,  and  I  shook  the  whole  bunch,  just  as  I  did  in  that 
session  at  Goldberg's.  I  wound  around  like  a  gimlet  for 
a  minute  and  I  was  goin'  some  when  I  went  through  the 
door.  Then,"  in  a  tone  of  deep  disgust,  "I  had  to  miss 
my  bearin's,  of  course,  and  when  I  brought  my  hoof 
down  for  the  first  stair  I  must  have  hit  about  the  last 
one,  I  guess.  Anyway,  the  lights  went  out."  He  shook 
his  head  mournfully,  while  O'Byrn  chuckled. 

"Don't  you  mind,"  said  he  soothingly,  "Goldberg  got  a 
worse  one  than  you.  He  bumped  along  down  after  you, 
and  afterward  he  was  hoppin'  around  on  one  leg  lookin' 
for  Nicky,  who  was  just  then  safe  in  the  arms  of  Micky. 
And  then  along  blew  the  dear  old  cab.  I  told  the  cabby 
you  were  drunk,  you  know." 

"Oh,  you  did,  did  you?"  without  enthusiasm.  "No 
such  luck  this  time.  Oh,  it's  all  right ;  it  was  a  good  bluff. 
Now  about  the  rough-house.  It  was  a  funny  stunt,  your 
happenin'  to  be  there  at  the  same  time  I  was.  You've 
got  your  nerve  with  you,  all  right.  As  for  yours  truly, 
I'd  been  there  so  often  before,  without  any  trouble,  that 
I  must  have  got  careless.  Anyway,  their  talk  was  inter 
esting  and  I  shoved  my  face  out  from  behind  the  side 
board  a  little  too  far,  and  up  jumps  that  bald-headed  dog 
of  a  Goldberg.  And  now  my  goose  is  cooked." 


150  THE  LASH 

He  sat  silent  for  a  few  moments,  moodily  puffing  his 
cigar  and  scowling  blackly.  O'Byrn  critically  watched 
him,  without  words.  The  sullen  glow  returned  to  Slade's 
eyes,  his  sallow  cheeks  flushed  slightly.  Then,  with  a 
savage  oath,  he  leaped  to  his  feet,  facing  the  waiting 
Irishman. 

"See  here!"  he  exclaimed  fiercely,  "I  owe  you  for  more 
than  one  good  turn,  and  I  guess  if  you  hadn't  happened 
to  be  on  deck  tonight  those  dogs  would  have  killed  me. 
You're  a  good  feller  and  they're  a  bunch  of  yellow  curs. 
I've  worked  for  'em  for  all  I  was  worth  for  a  long  while, 
done  dirty  work  for  'em,  and  what  have  I  got?  Just 
promises  and  a  run  around  the  rim,  that's  all,  when  I've 
got  enough  in  me  to  be  helpin'  to  work  the  calliope  in 
the  inside.  And  they  know  it,  too, — they  know  I  ain't 
no  fool.  Many's  the  time  has  Dick  Peterson,  the  rotten 
liar,  said  to  me:  'Slade,  my  boy,  you're  the  stuff;  we're 
goin'  to  take  care  of  you.'  Promises,  promises  to  burn ! 
And  it's  all  I've  had. 

"Well,  that's  the  way  it  went,  while  they  kept  on  play- 
in'  me  for  a  sucker.  Many's  the  job  I've  done  for  Peter 
son  that  he  didn't  have  the  sand  for  to  do  himself.  I  was 
always  vvillin'."  Micky  suppressed  a  smile  at  the  injured 
sorrow  in  Slade's  tones.  The  ex-heeler  shrugged  his 
shoulders  wearily  and  resumed  his  seat.  The  savagery 
had  departed  from  his  demeanor,  replaced  by  an  air  of 
dogged  malice. 

"Why,  that  gang  of  lepers,"  he  resumed  impressively, 
"that  bunch  of  hard-hearted  slobs  would  have  dumped 
me  in  a  minute,  after  that  little  scrape  me  and  you  was 
mixed  up  in  at  Goldberg's,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Peterson, 
and  he  ain't  used  me  right  to  any  extent  since  then, 


USEFUL  INFORMATION  151 

either.  But  if  it  hadn't  been  for  him  I'd  have  got  t'run 
down  then,  with  never  a  thought  for  what  I'd  done  for 
'em.  You're  always  pure  wool  while  you  can  be  used, 
then  you're  cheap  crash ;  remember  that,  my  boy.  I  was 
kin'  o'  hangin'  on  by  my  teeth,  though,  till  tonight.  Now 
it's  some  other  burg  for  mine,  or  likely  get  killed.  Well, 
that's  all  right,  too.  They're  racin'  in  other  burgs  as  well 
as  this,  and  I  guess  Slade  can  make  a  few  other  little 
pick-ups,  too,  just  to  keep  the  wolf  away."  He  smiled 
cunningly. 

"But  before  I  take  the  choo-choos  out,"  he  continued, 
his  eyes  alive  with  malice  as  he  bent  toward  Micky, 
"there's  a  score  to  settle  with  this  lovely  old  Shaughnessy 
gang  that  I'm  thinkin'  will  jar  more  than  one  of  'em  clear 
behind  the  bars.  You  know  this  Shaughnessy.  He's  a 
deep  one,  though  I  notice  you  was  onto  him  the  very  day 
of  the  convention.  Nobody  knows  what  he's  drivin'  at 
except  his  own  little  ring,  the  ring  that  everyone  in  this 
buncoed  town,  barrin'  me  and  you  and  a  mighty  few 
others,  thinks  has  turned  him  down.  Turned  him  down  !" 
Slade  laughed  dryly.  "Why,  he's  got  every  mother's 
son  of  'em  by  the  neck ;  could  jail  every  cursed  one  of 
'em  and  crawl  out  of  the  muss  himself.  Oh,  I  believe  he 
could,  he's  the  devil  himself. 

"But  there's  one  that's  fooled  him,"  exultantly,  "and  he 
won't  know  how  much  till  election  day.  Sure,  they 
caught  me  tonight,  but  do  you  think  for  a  minute  they'll 
find  out  that  I've  been  attendin'  their  devilish  little 
seances  for  months,  unbeknown  to  'em?  Well,  I  have. 
I  was  at  the  meetin'  that  decided  this  whole  funny  pro 
gramme  that  is  givin'  Fusion  black  eyes  every  minute, 
and  Fusion  would  have  won  out  in  a  canter  if  it  had 


152  THE  LASH 

anyone  else  than  this  devil  of  a  Shaughnessy  to  buck 
against.  I  was  at  that  meetin',  and  I  thought  I  knew  a 
thing  or  two,  but  say,  feller,  the  nerve  of  that  proposition 
got  my  alley.  When  Shaughnessy  sprung  it  on  the  bunch 
I  came  near  dyin'  prematoorly  on  the  spot  by  wantin'  to 
jump  out  from  behind  the  sideboard  and  tellin'  Shaugh 
nessy  he  was  a  gilt-edged  dandy ;  which  he  is,  if  he  ain't 
got  no  soul.  'But,'  says  the  gang,  when  he  sprung  it.  'it 
won't  work.  They  won't  follow  us  when  we  talk  of 
throwin'  you  down.  The  party '11  get  hacked  to  pieces 
in  its  own  convention.'  'Gentlemen,'  says  he,  'I  never 
mixed  with  the  hoi-polloi  anyway,  didn't  have  to.  You 
have.  They  don't  like  me  and  they  do  like  you.  Work 
this  thing  slick,  as  I  tell  you  to,  and  you'll  have  'cm  all 
marking  time  to  your  music.'  And  it  was  so.  Remem 
ber  the  convention?  The  reformers  thought  it  meant  a 
clean  bill ;  the  grafters  thought  it  would  be  a  gang  more 
lavish  than  Shaughnessy  had  been.  Oh,  it  was  a  lovely 
move.  And  he's  on  top  yet,  and  they  don't  know  it." 

He  gave  Micky  a  lingering  look.  "I'm  for  gettin' 
even,"  he  said.  "You've  been  trying  to  get  onto  the  trail 
ever  since  the  convention ;  you've  had  your  suspicions. 
I  saw  you  myself  the  other  night;  walked  from  Shaugh- 
nessy's  office  back  of  you,  after  that  old  whitewashed 
graveyard  of  a  nominee  for  mayor  had  left  there.  I  was 
there,  just  as  I'd  been  at  others,  though  Mr.  Shaughnessy 
never  invited  me.  Of  course,  they're  careful  about  win 
dows,  etc.,  but  I  can  always  make  good  somehow  on  a 
still  hunt.  What  do  I  know?  I  know  the  whole  rotten 
business.  The  circle  always  goes  into  particulars  and 
there  have  been  some  beautiful  give-and-takes  between 
Shaughnessy  and  old  Graveyard-Whiskers.  Whiskers 


USEFUL  INFORMATION  153 

don't  want  to  stand,  not  for  a  minute,  you  know,  but 
Shaughnessy  holds  him  to  the  gaff  because  he's  respecta 
ble."  This  with  a  grim  laugh.  "Shaughnessy  got  his 
hooks  on  him  years  ago ;  it's  a  funny  story,  I  guess.  The 
old  man  hates  to  give  up  living  decent ;  he  knows  if  he's 
elected  it'll  be  the  worst  administration  of  graft  this  city 
or  any  other  ever  saw.  He  can't  help  himself ;  Shaugh- 
nessy's  claws  are  in  him." 

Micky  was  bending  forward.  Imagined  possibilities 
were  assuming  definite  shape.  "Is  is  Consolidated  Gas?" 
he  asked,  eagerly. 

"Consolidated  Gas !"  Slade  echoed.  "Why,  son,  that's 
only  the  beginning.  It's  a  long,  hard  story,  a  bigger  one 
than  you'll  want  to  believe,  but  I  know  where  you  can  get 
the  proofs  for  it.  I've  been  busy  for  a  long  time.  When 
I  saw  the  gang  wasn't  goin'  to  do  anything  for  me,  I 
began  to  find  out  about  things  on  my  own  hook,  and  I've 
got  a  way  of  doin'  it  and  I  remember  what  I  hear.  When 
this  thing  was  over  and  Fusion  was  knocked  out,  I  was 
goin'  to  diplomatically  introduce  myself  into  a  better 
thing,  and  then  I'd  have  got  it.  But  that's  all  changed 
now.  When  I  remember  that  those  lepers  I've  done  so 
much  for  would  have  liked  to  murder  me  tonight,  I  get 
hell-hot.  I  want  to  see  'em  downed  now.  I'm  tired  of 
the  rotten  town  anyway.  Now,  I  put  you  on,  see?  You 
have  to  do  the  work,  for  I've  got  to  keep  out  of  sight. 
T  won't  be  safe  for  me  to  be  floatin'  around  the  old 
diggin's,  for  I'm  a  'traitor'  now,  you  know,  and  a  'dirty 
spy.'  But  don't  you  care,  it's  a  rich  thing  for  you.  You'll 
be  at  the  top  of  the  newspaper  heap.  I'll  stay  around 
here  on  the  q.  t.  long  enough  to  see  the  fun,  and  then  it's 
me  quietly  out.  There's  an  Indian  streak  in  me,  I  guess, 


I54  THE  LASH 

and  it's  doing  double  duty  just  now."  His  malevolent 
face  looked  it. 

For  the  next  hour  Micky  listened  to  a  recital  that  filled 
him  with  gaping  amazement  at  a  revelation  of  municipal 
iniquity,  spreading  to  the  State-house  and  even  beyond, 
that  was  undreamed  of  by  the  general  public.  It  thrilled 
him  with  the  lust  to  secure  as  big,  pulsing,  astounding 
chapters  in  a  vital  news  story  as  were  ever  written.  At 
the  close,  and  when  some  talk  had  been  devoted  to  his 
plan  of  procedure,  Slade  arose  to  depart.  "I've  got  some 
friends,  in  a  quiet  place,  that  won't  give  me  away/'  he 
announced. 

Micky  accompanied  him  to  the  front  door.  "Good 
night,  Santa  Claus,"  he  said,  with  twinkling  eyes,  and 
Slade,  somewhat  mystified,  unobtrusively  departed. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

HIS    BETTER    SIDE 

WHEN  he  had  seen  Slade  safely  off,  Micky 
returned  to  the  office  and  reported  to 
Harkins,  receiving  a  late  assignment  of  a 
night  police  story  which  they  desired 
"fixed  up"  in  the  style  which  was  peculiarly  O'Byrn's 
own.  He  contented  himself  just  now  with  telling  Har 
kins  that  he  had  been  after  something  which  promised 
well,  but  ''wasn't  ripe  enough  yet  to  spring."  He  felt 
that  the  thing  was  so  surprisingly  big  that  it  would  be 
better  not  to  mention  it  officially  till  he  could  be  sure  of 
being  able  to  secure  it.  Slade's  narrative  had  opened  up 
thrilling  posibilities ;  it  remained  for  O'Byrn  to  secure  the 
proofs  before  he  could  venture  to  say  anything,  much  less 
to  write  a  single  line.  This  would  take  hard  work  and 
subtlety,  but  Micky  looked  forward  confidently  to  the 
prospect  of  scoring  the  most  brilliant  coup  in  the  history 
of  newspaperdom  in  that  town. 

It  would  have  to  be  done  quickly,  too,  for  the  time 
was  growing  short.  The  Courier,  and  the  papers  which 
united  with  it  in  the  support  of  Fusion,  were  pounding 
away  on  a  forlorn  hope,  thanks  to  Shaughnessy's  masterly 
checkmate.  They  were  confined  to  inveighing  against  the 
past;  which  was  black  enough,  to  be  sure.  But  the 
Democracy,  having  apparently  reformed  from  within,  was 


156  THE  LASH 

evidently  preparing  for  a  regenerated  future.  This 
called  back  many  who  had  been  temporarily  alienated, 
and  Fusion's  chances  daily  grew  slimmer.  If  the  proof 
could  be  adduced  for  Slade's  revelations,  O'Byrn  knew 
that  a  very  simoon  of  public  wrath  would  at  the  eleventh 
hour  sweep  over  Shaughnessy  and  his  crew.  His  eyes 
sparkled.  The  simoon  should  be  forthcoming. 

His  work  kept  him  late,  and  the  gray  dawn  was  break 
ing  when  he  walked  wearily  back  to  his  lodgings  and 
tumbled  into  bed.  It  was  long  ere  he  could  sleep,  for  the 
glittering  possibilities  of  that  story  whirled  through  his 
brain.  At  last,  however,  he  fell  into  slumber  that  was 
disturbed  by  dreams  in  which  he  engaged  continuously 
in  fantastic  warfare  with  Shaughnessy,  and  in  which  he 
continually  got  the  worst  of  it.  It  was  in  the  nature  of  a 
relief  to  Micky,  on  awaking  about  noon,  to  reflect  a  little 
upon  the  good  old  adage  that  dreams  go  by  contraries. 

Having  had  breakfast  at  an  hour  even  unfashionably 
late,  Micky  sauntered  over  to  the  office.  He  moved  with 
unwonted  deliberation,  for  this  was  to  be  his  night  off. 
He  had  thought  many  times  of  Maisie,  who  was  ill,  and 
had  decided  that  late  in  the  afternoon  would  be  the  best 
time  to  make  the  call  her  brother  had  suggested.  He 
must  kill  a  little  time  till  then.  So  he  took  his  way  in 
stinctively  to  the  office,  being  one  of  those  unquiet  news 
paper  spirits  that  hover  uneasily  about  the  hive,  even 
when  they  have  a  brief  breathing  space  in  which  to  drone 
a  little. 

Now  that  the  first  shock  of  the  announcement  of  the 
girl's  illness  was  over,  Micky  viewed  the  situation  with 
more  composure.  Her  brother  had  said  it  was  not  seri 
ous,  and  Micky  knew  that  the  fever  to  which  Maisie 


HIS  BETTER  SIDE  157 

had  fallen  a  victim,  and  which  was  quite  prevalent  in  the 
city,  existed  in  a  mild  form.  She  would  be  out  in  a  few 
days,  but — ah!  it  was  too  bad,  anyway.  Micky  sought 
indignantly  to  blink  away  the  moisture  that  treacherously 
gathered  in  his  eyes. 

Reaching  the  office,  he  hung  around  aimlessly  for  a 
while,  watching  the  rest  of  them  work.  He  was  more 
silent  than  usual  and  made  rather  brief  replies  to  their 
greetings  and  subsequent  comments.  It  was  rather  odd 
to  see  him  mooning  in  this  way,  and  they  conspired  to 
gether  to  "jounce"  him  out  of  it. 

It  chanced  that  a  certain  old  gentleman  from  a  near-by 
village  was  prowling  about  the  office  that  afternoon.  He 
was  a  relative  of  the  business  manager,  who  had  asked  the 
boys  up  stairs  to  "tell  him  about  things."  As  he  was 
of  a  very  curious  turn  of  mind,  and  very  unsophisticated 
to  boot,  the  boys  soon  saw  they  were  in  for  it.  They 
spied  Micky,  moodily  gazing  out  of  the  window,  and 
swiftly  hatched  a  plan  whereby  the  venerable  visitor  was 
soon  introduced  to  Micky  with  the  understanding  that 
O'Byrn  should  "put  him  next." 

Micky  would  not  allow  his  mates,  who  hovered  near 
in  expectation  of  the  fun,  the  satisfaction  of  any  visible 
annoyance  on  his  part.  He  grinned  affably  at  the  aged 
seeker  after  knowledge,  and  ceremoniously  drew  up  a 
chair.  "I  can  tell  you  all  about  it  easier  than  I  can  show 
you,"  he  explained  innocently,  then  launched  forth. 

In  ten  minutes  he  had  told  the  visitor  more  about  the 
newspaper  business  than  there  really  is.  "Oh,  what  a 
pipe !"  enthusiastically  whispered  the  delighted  listeners, 
whose  presence  Micky  minded  not  at  all.  He  dwelt  par 
ticularly  and  pathetically  upon  the  amount  of  work  which 


158  THE  LASH 

is  expected  from  a  newspaper  man  by  his  unfeeling  edi 
tors.  Not  content  with  ascribing  to  the  luckless  reporter 
a  stint  of  forty-eight  hours'  work  in  every  twenty-four,  he 
calmly  outlined  an  imaginary  daily  programme  for  him 
self  that  staggered  even  the  credulous  old  gentleman. 

"But,  young  man,"  said  he  vaguely,  when  Micky  had 
finished  and  sat  regarding  him  with  owlish  gravity, 
"what — er — what  do  you  do  in  your  spare  time?" 

The  boys,  knowing  what  weakness  was  Micky's  crown 
ing  handicap,  were  in  a  position  to  appreciate  the  reply, 
which  might  have  somewhat  puzzled  the  old  gentleman. 

"My  spare  time?"  mused  Micky.  "Well,  let  me  see; 
what  do  I  do  in  my  spare  time?  Oh,  yes,"  with  a  re 
lieved  expression,  "to  be  sure.  In  my  spare  time  I  hunt 
for  another  job."  And  he  walked  out,  followed  by  a  roar 
of  laughter  in  which  the  bewildered  old  gentleman  did  not 
join. 

"What's  the  matter  with  me?  I'm  gettin'  to  be  a 
woman !"  muttered  Micky  a  few  moments  later,  as  he 
turned  southward  from  the  avenue  to  go  to  Maisie's. 
For  Micky  had  caught  himself,  to  his  disgust,  bestowing 
remorseful  thought  upon  the  bewildered  old  gentleman. 
Why  should  Micky  have  "strung"  him,  why  have  made 
him  the  sport  of  his  mates?  Had  he  not  gray  hairs,  were 
not  his  years  of  eld? 

Now  ordinarily  these  considerations  would  have  trou 
bled  Micky  not  at  all,  and  he  might  readily  be  pardoned 
his  dismay  at  evidences  of  the  growth  of  a  crop  of  nice 
scruples,  entirely  new  and  perplexing.  O'Byrn  was  not 
used  to  the  subtleties  of  conscience.  It  was  not  so  long 
ago  that  he  could  have  dismissed  the  thought  of  the 
gaping  old  fellow  with  the  moment  of  parting.  But  now 


HIS  BETTER  SIDE  159 

the  wondering  blue  eyes,  the  blank  old  face,  dismayed  at 
the  concerted  burst  of  shrill  laughter,  troubled  O'Byrn. 
It  would  not  have  done  so  in  former  days ;  why  now  ? 

Why,  it  was  the  girl,  of  course.  Micky's  freckled  face 
softened,  his  eyes  grew  wistful  as  the  explanation  oc 
curred  to  him.  Could  he  not  trace,  in  a  thousand  and 
one  little  ways,  a  change  in  his  life  since  she  came  into  it? 
Assuredly,  and  for  the  better.  Micky  acknowledged 
frankly  to  himself  that  his  love  for  her,  and  hers  for  him, 
was  Christianizing  him  ;  not  in  a  concrete  sense,  to  be 
sure,  for  O'Byrn's  thoughts  were  little  concerned  with 
religion,  as  such.  Thrown  upon  his  own  resources  at  an 
early  age.  he  was  essentially  a  world-product ;  but  now, 
through  this  love  for  a  girl, — a  new  experience  for  him, — 
the  little  Irishman  was  undergoing  a  refining  process  that 
surprised  even  himself.  No  startling  change  was  there, 
but  in  a  multitude  of  little  ways  was  shown  the  gentle 
influence  of  this  new  element  in  Micky's  life.  More  of 
tenderness ;  more  potent  impulses  to  kindliness ;  free- 
flowing  charity  toward  all.  For,  in  the  beatific  dawn  of 
love,  is  a  summons  for  the  best  in  poor,  dross-ridden 
human  nature  to  arise ;  and,  at  least  temporarily,  the 
happy  lover  radiates  peace  and  good  will  toward  all  man 
kind. 

So  Micky,  sauntering  thoughtfully  along,  continued 
superfluously  to  reflect  upon  his  irreverence  to  the  poor 
old  man, — who  probably  had  not  minded  it  half  as  much 
as  O'Byrn  did, — until  the  recurrent  thoughts  of  Maisie 
banished  the  incident  from  his  mind.  He  was  dancing 
with  her  at  the  Ironworkers'  ball,  he  sat  with  her  in  the 
little  parlor,  he  heard  the  sweet  voice  of  her — and  it  was 
with  a  distinct  sense  of  bewilderment  that  he  awoke  to 


160  THE  LASH 

find  himself  halted  mechanically  before  the  little  house  in 
which  she  lay. 

Advancing  doubtfully,  half  fearfully,  he  rang  the  bell. 
The  door  opened  and  Maisie's  mother  greeted  him.  No, 
she  said,  Maisie  was  not  seriously  ill,  was  quite  com 
fortable.  She  had  been  asking  for  him,  would  be  glad 
he  had  come.  Indeed,  said  Mrs.  Muldoon,  she  had  been 
wondering  if  he  would  come. 

"Come?"  echoed  Micky,  as  he  followed  her  in.  "Come? 
Why,  I've  been  thinkin'  of  her  ever  since  I  heard  it.  Gee ! 
I'm  glad  she's  feelin'  so  well.  Hello,  Terence!"  lie 
clutched  playfully,  in  a  rush  of  relieved  feeling,  at  the 
thick  thatch  of  the  youngest  Muldoon,  who  stood  agape 
in  the  doorway,  eyeing  him.  Terence  grinned  and  took 
to  his  heels. 

Maisie's  mother  ushered  Micky  upstairs.  A  light 
streamed  through  a  partially  opened  door  at  the  end  of 
the  hall.  It  was  from  Maisie's  room,  and  Micky  entered 
slowly,  timidly, — as  a  devotee  would  approach  a  shrine. 

As  it  had  been  through  a  mist,  for  the  blood  rushed 
tumultuously  to  his  head,  he  saw  her  sweet  face,  radiant 
with  welcome  and  love  for  him ;  saw  the  little  white 
hands,  eagerly  outstretched  toward  him.  In  an  instant 
they  were  lost  to  sight  within  his  trembling  own ;  he  bent 
over  her,  murmuring  broken  words,  with  an  odd  choke 
in  his  throat  and  big  tears  gathering  in  his  eyes.  He 
winked  them  indignantly,  strove  to  clear  his  burred  throat. 
The  attempt  ended  dismally  in  a  strangling  gasp. 

The  girl  laughed  tremulously  ;  but  the  tears,  summoned 
by  the  sight  of  the  lad's  emotion,  were  very  near  her  own 
eyes.  "Why,  Micky!"  she  said  softly.  "What's  the 


HIS  BETTER  SIDE  161 

matter?  Why,  I'm  not  really  sick,  you  know ;  that  is,  not 
bad.  Only—" 

"Yes,  little  girl,  I  know,"  he  interrupted,  recovering 
himself.  "I  didn't  mean  to  go  up  in  the  air  like  that, 
honest  I  didn't.  But  seein'  you  laid  up  like  this,  why,  it 
just  hit  me  where  I  live,  that's  all."  His  lip  quivered. 

"There,  there!"  Maisie's  mother,  good  old  soul,  was 
patting  him  on  his  meagre  shoulder.  "Of  course  it  hit  ye 
where  ye  live ;  in  yer  warm  Irish  heart,  to  be  sure.  But 
ye  needn't  worry,  for  the  doctor  says  Maisie  has  a  mild 
case  and  will  be  out  soon.  Well,  I'll  leave  ye  now,  she's 
been  lookin'  for  ye.  Of  course,  ye  can't  stay  long,  for  the 
doctor  says  she's  got  to  be  quiet.  But  have  a  little  chat 
wid  her,  an'  I'm  glad  ye  came  up,  me  boy."  And  she 
bustled  out,  radiating  hearty,  wholesome,  everyday  moth- 
erliness. 

For  some  moments  after  she  had  gone  the  boy  and 
girl  were  silent.  O'Byrn  had  drawn  a  chair  close  to  the 
small  white  bed  and  sat  quietly,  her  hand  in  his.  It  was 
hot,  the  little  hand,  and  fevered  roses  bloomed  in  her  soft 
cheeks.  Her  beautiful  eyes,  alight  with  joy  at  his  com 
ing,  gazed  happily  into  his  own  for  a  moment,  then  closed, 
a  little  wearily,  as  she  lay  content. 

Softly  pressing  the  little  answering  hand,  Micky 
looked  dreamily  about  the  room.  It  spoke  eloquently  of 
her,  small  and  modest  and  instinct  with  peaceful  purity. 
It  was  appointed  simply  in  white,  from  the  pretty  curtains 
at  the  two  small  windows  to  dresser  and  bureau  and 
quaint  old-fashioned  chairs.  On  a  small  stand  a  lamp 
burned  dimly,  for  the  outer  dusk  had  turned  into  early 
autumn  night.  The  tiny  clock  struck  the  half-hour. 

Her  eyes  opened.     "I'm  glad  you're  here,  Micky,"  she 


162  THE  LASH 

said  softly.  "I've  been  hopin'  you'd  come.  1  hate  to  lie 
here  all  day  long.  Tisn't  natural,"  with  a  rueful  laugh. 
"But  I  don't  want  you  to  feel  bad,  Micky.  You  don't 
need  to,  I'm  all  right." 

"I  know  you  are,  girl,"  he  answered  heartily.  "But  it 
struck  me  all  of  a  heap,  somehow,  seeing  you  stretched 
out  like  this.  I  knew  you  would  be  laid  up,  of  course ; 
but,  don't  you  know,  you  can  think  about  a  thing  all 
right,  but  it's  different  when  you  actually  run  up  against 
it." 

She  laughed  gaily.  "Does  anyone  else  say  things  just 
like  you  ?"  she  wondered.  "That  sounds  just  like  your 
dear  old  slangy  self,  Micky.  But  anyway,  you  hit  the 
nail  on  the  head,  every  time." 

"And  drive  it  through."  He  grinned  joyfully  at  her. 
"Talk  some  more  like  that,  Maisie,''  he  urged  her.  "You 
sound  like  yourself.  Oh,  we'll  have  you  on  your  pins 
in  no  time." 

"You  bet !"  She  smiled  back  at  him.  "Oh,  I  hadn't 
ought  to  complain,  I  know.  Others  are  having  it  worse 
than  me.  There's  poor  Julia  Orr,  worked  in  the  store 
with  me  once.  She  died  yesterday— 

"Don't,  Maisie!"  His  voice  was  unsteady.  "Don't 
speak  of  dying — anybody!  I  can't  stand  it!  I  hate  the 
thought  of  it !" 

"Why,  Micky  !"  Her  blue  eyes  were  solemn.  "We  all 
die,  don't  we?  You've  known  it  almost  since  you  were 
born.  You've  got  to  get  used  to  it." 

He  forced  a  smile.  "Well,  we  won't  talk  about  it  now," 
he  declared.  "It's  depressing.  How'd  you  like  your 
flowers?" 

"Oh !"  she  cried,  in  distress.     "And  I  meant  to  thank 


HIS  BETTER  SIDE  163 

you  for  'em  when  you  first  came  in,  and  I  forgot  it.  You 
ought  to  feel  complimented.  You  drove  'em  out  of  my 
mind.  Bring  'em  here." 

"Match  the  room,"  he  commented,  as  he  complied.  She 
smiled  assent,  and,  selecting  one  of  the  white  roses,  raised 
herself  upon  her  pillows  and  pinned  it  upon  his  coat  lapel. 
"There !"  said  she,  admiring  the  effect.  "You'll  do, 
now." 

Again  his  wide  grin  cleft  his  freckled  face.  "The 
whole  conservatory  wouldn't  help  much,"  he  observed. 

Tis  a  homely  boy  you  picked  out,  Maisie." 

"My  boy  is  good  enough  for  me,"  she  returned  gently, 
"as  long  as  he  keeps  on  trying,  and  does  the  best  he  can." 

His  face  grew  shadowed.  "That's  just  it,  girl,"  he 
said,  rather  sadly.  "Someone  said  once  that  'the  best  is 
bad  enough,'  and  if  that's  so,  what  of  my  worst?" 

"Your  worst  is  for  you  to  fight,"  answered  this  young 
sibyl.  "Your  worst  is  never  as  bad  as  it  seems  to  you, 
just  as  long  as  you  keep  on  fightin'  it.  And  you  will, 
Micky,  won't  you?"  Her  arms  were  stretched  impul 
sively  toward  him. 

He  caught  her  hands,  his  eyes  burning.  "Till  hell 
freezes  over!"  he  told  her,  grimly.  "Oh,  excuse  me!" 
he  added  confusedly.  "I  didn't  mean — 

"Never  mind,  Micky,  never  mind!"  she  told  him,  with 
a  laugh  in  her  eyes.  "I  know  how  you  feel." 

"Yes,  I  guess  you  do!"  he  muttered.  "If  I  could  only 
blot  out  some  things — if  I'd  been  different  from  the  be 
ginning — if  I'd  had  some  chance — if  I  amounted  to 
something  now — ah!  dreams — dreams!" 

"Keep  on  dreaming,  Micky,"  she  said  softly.     "They'll 


164  THE  LASH 

take  you  on  the  right  road — you're  on  it  now — and  they'll 
come  true !" 

There  was  a  hesitant  step  outside.  He  arose,  bending 
and  taking  her  in  his  arms. 

"I  hope — I  guess — I'm  on  the  right  road,"  he  breathed. 
"And  you've  shown  me  the  way,  little  girl ;  you  have,  for 
fair.  Well,  I  must  be  going,  I  hear  your  mother  outside. 
I've  stayed  too  long  now ;  I  mustn't  tire  you.  Well,  good 
night,  dear." 

He  withdrew,  to  walk  home  with  the  dear  shrined 
image  of  her  in  his  swelling  heart ;  with  her  tender  words 
of  faith  in  him  to  summon  a  maze  of  happy  dreams. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  COUP  IN  SIGHT 

THE  succeeding   fortnight   found   the   Fusionists 
much  exercised  in  mind.     Do  what  they  could, 
the    trend    was    steadily,    and    with    gathering 
impetus,  the  other  way ;  the  way  of  the  devil, 
as  the  Fusion  leaders  firmly  believed,  but  they  could  not 
induce  the  balance  of  voting  power  to  think  likewise. 
With  the  election  now  but  a  few  days  off,  the  chances 
for  the  Reform  ticket  looked  hopeless. 

"Oh !"  groaned  Colonel  Westlake,  in  a  conversation 
with  the  Courier's  managing  editor  one  evening,  "if  only 
we  could  nail  'em  somewhere!  But  there  was  never  a 
time  when  everything  was  locked  up  as  it  is  now.  You 
can't  get  anything.  We've  whaled  all  the  chaff  out  of 
the  old  straw,  but  it  doesn't  do  any  good.  It's  a  different 
proposition  from  what  it  looked  to  be  in  the  first  place, 
isn't  it?  I'm  convinced,  though,  that  if  we  could  only 
dig  up  what's  beneath  the  surface  on  this  deal,  we'd  win 
out  yet,  late  as  it  is.  It's  a  forlorn  hope,  but  everybody 
must  keep  his  eyes  open,  that's  all.  I'll  tell  you  one  thing, 
the  man  that  happened  to  turn  the  trick  would  have  no 
occasion  to  regret  it,  and  don't  you  forget  it !" 

Unknown  to  the  Colonel,  as  it  was  unknown  also  to  the 
managing  editor  and  to  Harkins,  the  man  who  was  to 
turn  the  trick  was  steadily  forging  ahead  in  the  process. 


166  THE  LAS1I 

Micky,  however,  had  kept  his  own  counsel.  This  was  not 
a  matter  to  be  bawled  from  the  house-tops,  or  even  whis 
pered  in  secret,  until  the  moment  came  in  which  he  might 
confidently  warn  his  superiors  to  prepare  to  exploit  the 
story.  The  task  was  one  to  be  prosecuted  with  infinite 
caution,  and  he  was  pursuing  it  alone.  It  would  be  time 
to  speak  of  it  when  he  had  it  so  flanked  by  facts,  and 
fortified  by  proof,  that  the  town  should  read  it  aghast  and 
rally  at  the  eleventh  hour  to  save  itself. 

Meanwhile  O'Byrn  was  not  idle.  He  had  already  satis 
fied  himself,  by  actual  proof,  of  the  value  of  Slade's  tips. 
The  time  spent  by  that  worthy  in  subterranean  research 
had  evidently  been  well  expended.  There  was,  clinched 
and  ready  for  publication,  much  that  was  startling.  The 
information  had  been  gained,  moreover,  from  various 
sources  involving  difficulties  in  handling,  yet  Micky  had 
proceeded  thus  far  without  causing  a  ripple  of  uneasiness 
in  the  turbid  waters,  and  the  knaves  whose  undoing  he 
sought  were  in  blissful  ignorance  of  the  formidable  net 
that  was  closing  :  bout  them.  The  layman  will  wonder 
how  this  could  be,  but  the  trained  newspaper  man  will 
readily  understand  how  a  ''star"  worker  like  O'Byrn, 
gifted  with  far  more  than  ordinary  subtlety,  could  accom 
plish  a  result  which  a  good  reporter,  in  less  degree  per 
haps,  has  frequently  to  negotiate  in  his  arduous  calling. 

The  crowning  fact,  however,  must  be  nailed  home  be 
fore  the  Irishman  could  spring  his  story ;  the  fact  to 
which  all  other  things  led  and  upon  which  they  were 
dependent.  The  sublimely  audacious  hoax  of  the  Demo 
cratic  convention,  the  spectacle  of  hordes  of  unconscious 
puppets  of  Shaughnessy  in  the  background,  the  ex 
posure  of  masterly  effrontery  hitherto  unparalleled  in 


THE  COUP  IN  SIGHT  167. 

the  history  of  political  bossism ;  these  were  the  culminat 
ing,  dramatic  features  of  the  story,  without  which  it 
would  be  as  Samson  shorn  of  power.  To  use  these 
features,  and  invest  them  with  facts  to  insure  public 
credence,  a  difficult  proposition  presented  itself.  Judge 
Boynton  must  be  revealed  to  the  people  as  he  had  been, 
and,  no  matter  how  unwillingly,  in  case  of  his  election 
would  have  to  be  again ;  an  abject  tool  of  Shaughnessy's 
ring. 

Slade  and  O'Byrn  both  knew  that  the  Democratic  can 
didate  for  the  mayoralty  was  running  unwillingly ;  that 
he  revolted  from  the  ignoble  part  he  would  be  forced 
to  play.  They  knew  also  that  he  was  compelled  to 
"stand  the  gaff,"  as  Slade  expressed  it,  through  some 
sinister,  secret  hold  which  Shaughnessy  had  upon  him. 
But  what  was  this  hold?  Whatever  it  was,  upon  its 
revelation  rested  the  whole  superstructure  of  O'Byrn's 
story.  The  Democratic  party  had  nominated  for  the 
mayoralty  a  jurist  of  high  reputation,  during  his  years 
upon  the  bench,  and  in  his  retirement  the  recipient  of 
general  public  esteem.  Micky  realized  fully  that  an 
attack,  through  mere  inference  of  wrong-doing,  upon 
such  a  man,  would  be  not  only  libelous  but  abortive  in 
its  effect  upon  the  public.  The  people,  judging  from 
externals,  looked  upon  the  candidate  as  a  true,  un- 
trammeled  reformer.  Micky  knew  that  he  was, — perhaps 
originally  by  choice  and  now  assuredly  of  necessity, — 
a  servile  tool  of  the  most  corrupt  political  ring  in  the 
country ;  but  the  public  statement  of  the  Irishman  to 
that  effect  would  have  to  be  backed  up  by  incontrovertible 
proof. 

It   was   truly   a    formidable    difficulty,    and    one   that 


i68  THE  LASH 

O'Byrn  chafed  under  as  the  swift  days  passed,  bringing 
the  election  uncomfortably  close,  with  not  an  effective 
blow  as  yet  to  stay  the  victorious  progress  of  the  "re 
generated"  Democracy.  Micky  had  exerted  himself  to 
the  utmost,  continuously  yet  cautiously,  in  the  attempt 
to  possess  himself,  by  hook  or  crook,  of  that  hidden  secret 
which  was  the  still  unlocated  fibre  of  his  story ;  but 
without  success.  With  everything  else  practically 
"clinched,"  was  he  to  fail  with  the  goal  in  sight? 

Micky  returned  from  a  brief  call  at  Maisie's  one  even 
ing.  It  happened  to  be  his  night  off,  and  he  repaired 
to  his  room  relieved  in  mind.  He  had  found  Maisie  sit 
ting  with  the  family,  with  only  unaccustomed  pallor  and 
thinness  to  bespeak  her  recent  illness.  O'Byrn  was  very 
tired,  as  he  had  devoted  the  day  to  still-hunting  on  the 
big  story,  for  which  purpose  he  had  risen  early  after  a 
mere  snatch  of  sleep.  Now  from  thought  of  Maisie,  he 
passed  to  puzzling  reflections  over  the  story,  for  still  the 
maddening  kernel  of  it  all  eluded  him. 

Suddenly  a  cautious  knock  sounded  at  his  door,  as 
he  sat  with  his  red  head  sunk  disconsolately  between 
his  freckled  hands.  Ere  he  could  rise,  the  portal  opened 
to  admit  Slade. 

"Good!"  ejaculated  the  ex-heeler.  "Glad  I've  found 
you.  Sent  a  kid  up  to  the  office  for  you,  but  he  said 
you  was  off  tonight.  So  I  chanced  it  up  here,  sneaking 
along  in  the  shade.  I'm  not  gettin'  under  any  electric 
lamps  now,"  with  a  grim  chuckle.  "But  say,  get  your 
hat  'nd  coat.  There's  a  little  confab  on  tonight,  'nd 
we've  missed  too  much  of  it  already." 

Micky  was  already  getting  into  his  overcoat.  "What's 
up?"  he  inquired  laconically,  the  old  flame  kindling  in 


THE  COUP  IN  SIGHT  169 

his  eyes.  He  reached  for  his  hat  and  extinguished  his 
gas  heater.  Slade  fully  appreciated  the  crowning  dif 
ficulty  Micky  had  to  deal  with,  and  the  Irishman  knew 
the  little  tout  was  not  there  for  any  idle  purpose. 

"Shaughnessy  'nd  His  Whiskers  are  chewin'  the  rag 
again,"  explained  Slade,  as  they  went  down  stairs. 
"They're  in  Shaughnessy's  office,  as  usual.  Been  there 
some  time;  hope  we  ain't  too  late.  I  know  what  you're 
after.  Can't  never  tell,  maybe  they'll  spit  up  somethin' 
worth  while." 

Micky  knew  Slade  well  enough  to  neglect  needless 
inquiry  as  to  how  they  were  to  manage  to  hear  this 
private  conversation.  He  had  ample  evidence  of  the 
former  heeler's  eavesdropping  powers,  and  followed  him 
in  perfect  confidence  to  the  conference. 

Gaining  the  street  on  which  Shaughnessy's  establish 
ment  was  located,  they  proceeded  cautiously,  looking 
about  to  be  sure  the  coast  was  clear.  The  reflection 
of  a  light  gleamed  dully  behind  the  closely  curtained 
office  windows.  "They're  here  yet,"  murmured  Slade. 

The  street  was  deserted.  With  a  warning  gesture, 
Slade  made  his  way  noiselessly  through  a  little  drive 
way  toward  the  rear  of  the  building,  Micky  following. 
Slade  paused  a  moment.  O'Byrn  heard  him  chuckle  in 
the  darkness. 

"A  man  is  always  one  kind  of  a  fool,"  he  whispered, 
"and  most  of  us  are  most  kinds.  Shaughnessy,  he's  just 
one  kind,  but  it's  bad.  He  won't  hire  a  night  watchman. 
Do  you  mind  coal  dust?" 

"Nit!"  replied  Micky. 

"Then  follow  me,"  said  Slade,  "and  mind  you  don't 
make  any  noise  about  it,  either."  He  stooped,  fumbling 


i;o  THE  LASH 

at  a  cellar  window.  "There's  a  broken  pane  here,"  he 
whispered,  "but  they're  always  careful  to  keep  the  casing 
hooked."  He  chuckled  as  he  pushed  the  window  inward 
and  cautiously  thrust  the  hook  into  the  staple  in  the 
timber  beyond.  He  then  prepared  to  descend. 

"But  the  coal,  won't  it  rattle?"  asked  Micky  ap 
prehensively,  as  he  drew  near  the  window  in  readiness  to 
follow  Slade  down. 

"No,"  grinned  the  little  tout.  "They  don't  use  this 
bin  no  more,  but  they  used  to.  You'll  know  when  you 
wash  up  afterwards.  Well,  come  on,  and  be  quiet."  He 
disappeared. 

Micky  bent  to  follow  him.  Gingerly  insinuating  him 
self  backward  through  the  window,  his  legs  were  grasped 
from  below  and  Slade  piloted  him  easily  to  the  floor. 
"Good !"  breathed  the  guide.  "Now  come  along,  and  just 
shuffle,  or  you'll  be  falling  over  things.  I'll  keep  you  in 
the  open.  The  cellar's  full  of  things."  Manifestly  Slade 
had  been  there  before. 

The  obedient  Micky  "shuffled"  cautiously  along  and 
the  two  proceeded  without  mishap  to  a  flight  of  stairs, 
which  they  ascended  cautiously.  It  was  pitch  dark.  In 
Micky's  strained  ears  the  scuttling  of  a  rat,  across 
the  floor  beneath  them,  sounded  unnaturally  loud. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  whispered  Slade,  as  they  gained 
the  top.  "Sometimes  this  door  is  locked  and  some 
times  it  ain't.  If  it  is,  I've  got  a  key." 

It  was  not,  and  the  eavesdroppers  stepped  softly  out 
into  the  big  wareroom.  Here  showed  the  dim  outlines 
of  innumerable  casks  and  cases,  for  the  radiance  of  some 
distant  electric  lights  struggled  through  the  small,  old- 
fashioned  windows.  A  subdued  sound  of  voices  came 


THE  COUP  IN  SIGHT  171 

from  the  office  at  the  upper  end  of  the  room.  Micky 
turned  involuntarily  in  that  direction. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  whispered  Slade,  and  tiptoed  back 
toward  the  rear,  O'Byrn  following.  Slade  bent  over 
a  small  cask,  duly  spigoted  and  with  a  couple  of  small 
glasses  setting  near  it.  "All  the  comforts  of  home," 
he  grinned.  He  drew  a  couple  of  generous  draughts 
and  held  one  of  the  glasses  toward  Micky.  "I  know 
where  they  keep  everything,"  he  whispered,  with  a 
leer. 

The  fiery  aroma  was  in  Micky's  nostrils.  He  hesitated, 
but  drew  back.  ''I  guess  not — "  he  began  doubtfully. 

"Take  it,  man,"  urged  Slade.  "A  little  whisky  won't 
hurt  you.  Besides,  it's  a  joke.  Here's  hopin'  worse 
luck  to  Shaughnessy  in  his  own  stuff."  Micky  grinned, 
faltered  a  moment,  and  then  lightly  touched  glasses  with 
Slade  and  downed  the  liquor. 

"Tastes  like  another,"  whispered  Slade,  "and  pro 
ceeded  to  fill  up  the  glasses  again.  Micky  drank  with 
out  further  protest.  The  pleasant  glow  at  his  stomach 
infused  itself  into  his  veins,  mounted  benignly  toward 
his  brain.  Always  abnormally  quick  to  respond  to  the 
spur  of  stimulants,  he  was  conscious  almost  instantly  of 
added  zest  for  the  adventure. 

"Come  on  and  be  mighty  quiet,"  murmured  Slade, 
and  the  pair  made  their  way  on  tiptoe  toward  the  office. 
Slade  approached  the  door,  the  upper  part  of  which 
enclosed  a  wide  glass,  behind  which  hung  a  screening 
yellow  shade.  There  was  a  narrow  space  below  it,  how 
ever,  through  which  a  view  of  the  interior  could  be 
obtained,  the  shade  being  a  little  too  short  to  quite  reach 
the  length  of  the  glass.  Through  an  open  transom 


172  THE  LASH 

overhead  the  speech  of  those  inside  was  clearly  audible. 

The  eavesdroppers  bent,  looking  into  the  office. 
Shaughnessy  sat  in  his  big  leather  chair,  indolently  puffing 
a  black  cigar,  dreamily  gazing  toward  the  ceiling.  Near 
him,  in  an  attitude  of  deep  dejection,  sat  Judge  Boynton. 
The  venerable  candidate  was  speaking,  while  the  boss 
might  have  been  a  thousand  miles  away.  But  the  watch 
ers  knew  that  the  jurist  had  the  honor  of  his  chief's 
undivided  attention.  It  was  a  secret  of  Shaughnessy's 
success,  the  veil  of  icy  indifference  that  hid  so  potently 
the  dark  workings  of  his  own  mind  while  he  probed  un 
erringly  into  the  recesses  of  others. 

"Why  did  you  drag  me  in  again?"  the  Judge  was 
inquiring.  "Were  there  not  others ;  less  tired,  more  cal 
loused  ?  For  I  was  never  calloused.  You  got  your  talons 
into  me  by  a  trick!"  He  clenched  impotent  hands.  "I 
did — as  I  had  to — for  years,  and,  when  the  time  came, 
I  went  thankfully  enough  into  retirement.  I  thought 
I  had  done  with  you  forever.  And  now — isn't  the  mem 
ory  of  the  past  enough  without  such  a  future  as  you 
have  marked  out  for  me — far  worse  than  the  past?  It's 
not  to  be  borne!" 

Shaughnessy  lowered  his  eyes.  His  cold,  snaky  gaze 
met  the  other's  fairly.  "You  talk  like  an  old  woman," 
he  sneered.  "You  sound  like  a  paper-covered  novel. 
I  got  hold  of  you  by  a  trick,  eh?  Now  you  know  how 
I  got  you,  well  enough.  I  put  out  bait  that  always 
lands  supposedly  honest  men,  like  yourself,  and  you 
swallowed  it,  hook  and  all,  just  like  a  lot  of  other  respect 
able  suckers  before  you,  and  since.  Well,  what  are  you 
kicking  about?  You  put  yourself  where  you  had  to 
be  useful  to  me,  didn't  you?  Well,  it's  paid  you,  hasn't 


THE  COUP  IN  SIGHT  173 

it?  And  this  little  programme  we've  got  mapped  out 
for  the  next  two  years,  it's  going  to  pay  you,  and  all 
of  us,  so  we  can  retire  for  good."  He  chuckled  in 
solently. 

The  old  man's  lips  set  in  a  grim  line.  "I'm  praying 
that  I  may  be  defeated,"  he  said,  "but  if  not,  I'll  be  mayor 
of  this  town.  I  may — " 

Shaughnessy  straightened  in  his  chair.  His  mouth 
grew  repellently  cruel,  his  eyes  assumed  the  fixed  glare 
of  a  serpent  about  to  strike.  "Now  see  here!"  He 
spat  out  the  words  like  venom.  "I'll  be  elected  next 
week,  and  I'll  be  mayor  these  two  years  coming.  You're 
a  decoy  just  now,  and  nothing  more;  but  after  the  first 
of  January  you'll  be  a  live  duck,  with  a  string  on  you, 
that's  all.  You  must  be  getting  into  your  second  child 
hood  to  play  the  damn  fool  as  you  have  been  playing 
it  ever  since  this  thing  started.  You  can't  squeal,  you 
can't  afford  to.  If  you  ever  did,  it  would  be  all  up 
with  me  and  a  lot  of  others — but  you'd  go  with  us,  so 
help  me  God !  Now  just  you  cast  your  eye  on  this  bunch 
of  teasers  for  a  minute,  and  get  sensible !"  Reaching 
into  a  secret  compartment  of  his  desk  he  slapped  down  a 
bundle  of  documents. 

The  gray  discouragement  crept  back  into  the  old  man's 
face.  Shaughnessy  smiled  cruelly.  Outside  the  office 
O'Byrn  eagerly  clutched  Slade's  arm.  "We've  got  to 
have  them !"  he  breathed  in  the  tout's  ear.  "After  they 
go,"  returned  Slade. 

The  next  moment  brought  dismay  to  the  watchers. 
"I  think  I'll  deposit  these  elsewhere,"  observed  Shaugh 
nessy  casually,  with  a  glance  toward  the  badgered  Judge. 


174  THE  LASH 

"I  don't  think  they're  safe  here."  He  slipped  them  into 
an  inner  pocket  of  his  coat. 

Micky's  blank  stare  of  dismay  was  instantly  suc 
ceeded  by  a  sudden  inspiration,  a  plan  daring  but  des 
perate.  He  plucked  at  Slade's  sleeve,  drawing  him 
away  from  the  window.  "He  mustn't  leave  here  with 
'em,"  he  whispered,  and  proceeded  briefly  to  unfold 
his  plan.  Slade,  who  was  of  kin  with  O'Byrn  in  reck 
lessness,  was  enthusiastic. 

"All  right  if  they  stay  long  enough,"  he  muttered. 
"Let's  take  a  look."  A  glance  through  the  glass  showed 
the  two  occupants  of  the  office,  with  chairs  close  to 
gether,  conversing  in  low  tones.  Shaughnessy  was  evi 
dently  elaborating  his  programme. 

"You  stay  here  and  keep  watch,"  whispered  Slade. 
"I  can  get  over  and  back  quick.  There's  a  drug  store 
two  blocks  away,  and  I've  got  an  awful  toothache,"  with 
a  nudge.  "Matches?  No,  I  can  get  around  here  like 
a  cat,  and  as  still."  He  glided  silently  away.  Micky 
resumed  his  watch  at  the  office  door. 

The  moments  dragged  by  slowly.  Micky  grew  im 
patient.  What  if  Slade  should  return  too  late?  And 
now  the  Judge  was  rising,  donning  his  coat  and  hat. 
Shaughnessy  was  seeing  him  to  the  door ;  it  opened — 
he  was  gone.  Micky  strained  his  ears,  no  sounds  of  a 
returning  Slade. 

Shaughnessy  walked  leisurely  to  his  desk.  Ah !  it 
was  all  right,  he  was  going  to  sit  down.  But  no.  he 
closed  the  lid  of  his  desk  ;  donned  his  hat,  took  clown 
his  coat  from  the  hook,  was  leisurely  getting  into  it. 

Then   Micky   with  difficulty   repressed   a  startled  cry. 


THE  COUP  IN  SIGHT  175 

Out  of  nowhere,  without  a  sound  in  the  intense  still 
ness,  Slade  materialized  from  darkness  at  his  side. 

"Quick!"  gasped  Micky,  "he's  going!"  But  for  Slade's 
restraining  hand  he  would  have  thrown  himself  bodily 
against  the  door. 

"Hold  on !  do  you  want  him  to  see  us  ?"  he  whispered 
savagely.  "Here!  quick,  put  this  on."  He  thrust  an 
object  into  Micky's  hand.  "It's  a  mask,"  he  explained, 
adjusting  one  of  his  own.  "Gettin'  'em  is  what  kept 
me." 

The  masks  were  of  the  grotesque  little  variety  af 
fected  alike  by  house  breakers  and  masqueraders.  Micky 
learned  afterward  that  Slade  had  a  dubious  friend  in 
the  vicinity  who  possessed  such  conveniences.  After 
leaving  the  office  he  had  bethought  himself  of  the  awk 
wardness  of  Shaughnessy's  recognizing  them  in  the  pros 
pective  encounter.  Slade  had  a  long  head. 

The  plotters  took  another  look  at  the  interior.  Shaugh- 
nessy  was  standing  with  his  back  to  them,  leisurely 
selecting  a  cigar  from  his  case,  preparatory  to  going. 
"Now  for  it!"  whispered  Slade,  and  the  two,  looking  like 
two  simon-pure  burglars,  crept  forward.  Slade's  hand 
fell  upon  the  handle  of  the  office  door.  Contrary  to 
his  expectations,  it  was  unlocked.  He  nudged  Micky, 
immediately  behind,  to  impose  caution,  and  softly  opened 
the  door. 

The  two  passed  inside  as  stealthily  as  Indians  and 
crept  slowly  toward  the  unsuspecting  Shaughnessy.  Even 
in  the  silence  his  keen  ear  caught  some  sound — perhaps 
the  repressed  breathing  of  his  assailants.  At  all  events, 
he  half-turned.  As  he  did  so,  however,  Micky  leaped 
forward  and  pinioned  his  arms  from  the  rear.  The  wiry 


176  THE  LASH 

Irishman  drew  the  struggling  boss  backward,  throwing 
him  into  the  chair  he  had  lately  vacated  and  holding  him 
there  helpless.  With  a  lithe  spring,  like  a  cat's,  Slade 
was  at  his  side,  his  hand  over  Shaughnessy's  mouth,  sti 
fling  a  gurgling  outcry  in  its  infancy.  With  the  free  hand 
he  applied  a  saturated  handkerchief  to  the  struggling 
man's  face  and  held  it  there.  The  deathly  odor  of  chloro 
form  filled  the  air. 

After  a  little,  Slade  removed  the  handkerchief.  "I 
guess  he'll  do,"  he  muttered.  O'Byrn  thrust  his  hand 
into  the  inner  pocket  of  the  boss'  coat  and  extracted  the 
papers,  carefully  transferring  them  to  his  own.  With 
an  afterthought,  he  also  possessed  himself  of  the  uncon 
scious  man's  keys. 

He  grinned.  "It's  us  out  through  the  front  door," 
he  said.  "I'll  keep  the  keys.  He  needs  exercise,  this 
fellow.  He  can  get  it  chasin'  round,  when  they  let  him 
out  tomorrow,  gettin'  some  more  made." 

They  surveyed  the  inert  boss,  huddled  horribly  in 
his  chair,  his  eyes  closed  in  his  ghastly  face.  "God !" 
breathed  Micky,  a  creeping  chill  in  his  spine,  "he  looks 
like  a  corpse!  Do  you  suppose  you  gave  him  too 
much  ?" 

"Naw!"  returned  Slade,  disgustedly.  "Was  I  born 
yesterday?  It's  only  his  damned  eyes.  When  they're 
shut,  he  looks  like  a  dead  one,  for  fair.  Let's  get  out 
before  he  has  us  countin'  our  fingers." 

They  opened  the  door  cautiously  and  looked  out.  The 
coast  was  clear.  Extinguishing  the  lights  in  the  office, 
they  emerged,  locked  the  door  and  departed.  Huddled 
in  the  darkness  sat  Shaughnessy,  his  chin  sunk  on  his 


THE  COUP  IN  SIGHT  177 

breast,  his  hands  clenched  convulsively  upon  the  arms 
of  his  chair. 
************** 

A  little  later,  Micky,  with  crimsoned  face  and  eyes 
unnaturally  bright,  approached  Harkins'  desk  in  the 
Courier  office.  He  bent  confidentially  toward  his  chief 
with  an  electrifying  communication. 

"Get  ready,"  said  Micky,  "for  the  damnedest  feature 
story  for  the  next  issue  that  was  ever  sprung  in  this 
town.  Yes  sir,  absolutely  the  damnedest.  The  lines  are 
all  out.  I'm  due  for  about  five  hours'  sleep,  and  then 
I'll  begin  to  gather  'em  in,  and  there'll  be  a  bouquet  of 
suckers  on  every  hook.  I've  got  a  lot  of  finishin'  touches 
to  get  tomorrow,  and  I'll  be  able  to  begin  grindin'  it  out 
early  in  the  evenin',  not  before.  Yes,  I'll  have  it  all. 
What  is  it?  It's  a  slaughter,  slaughter  of  the  gang. 
Shaughnessy'll  be  wearin'  stripes  unless  he  ducks,  and 
a  lot  more  with  him,  includin'  Old  Whiskers  Boynton. 
Not  in  time?  Election  only  three  days  off?  Wait  till 
you  read  the  story !  Wait  till  the  town  reads  it !  They'll 
all  be  champin'  the  bit  of  Fusion  and  frothin'  at  the 
mouth.  I've  been  at  this  for  weeks,  but  the  main  stuffin' 
I  only  got  tonight.  It  comes  late,  but  it's  a  winner,  and 
Shaughnessy,  he's  a  dead  one !" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

A  COUNTER  MOVE 

SHAUGHNESSY    stirred    uneasily    in    his    chair. 
Then,  with  a  convulsive  shudder,  he  sat  erect, 
one   hand    instinctively  pressed   against   his   left 
side.    His  head  reeled,  his  bewildered  eyes  strove 
to  pierce  the  gloom.     With  a  swift  intake  of  breath  the 
deathly  smell  of  the  drug  crept  into  his  nostrils.     Then 
he  remembered. 

With  a  snarling  curse  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  drawing 
a  match  from  his  vest  pocket  with  shaking  fingers.  He 
lighted  the  gas  and  glanced  toward  the  safe,  expecting 
to  find  it  forced  open.  All  seemed  to  be  in  order.  The 
boss  was  perplexed.  What  had  they  wanted,  those  mys 
terious  visitors? 

With  a  sudden  apprehension  he  thrust  his  hand  swiftly 
into  an  inner  pocket  and  found  it  empty.  Then  Shaugh- 
nessy,  momentarily  beyond  oaths,  collapsed  helplessly 
into  his  chair.  There  was  expression  enough  in  his  white 
face  now,  and  it  was  of  fear. 

The  papers  were  gone,  filched  from  him  in  open  as 
sault,  in  a  way  of  which  the  boss  had  never  dreamed. 
He  could  have  groaned  in  bitterness  of  spirit  as  he  re 
membered  what  zealous  care  he  had  taken  of  those  damn 
ing  documents,  veritable  blood  pacts  of  dark,  unprincipled 
deeds,  through  which  Shaughnessy  held  the  wretched 


A  COUNTER  MOVE  179 

signers  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand.  Though  cunningly 
giving  the  impression  that  they  were  kept  in  his  office, 
Shaughnessy  generally  had  them  in  safe  keeping  else 
where  and  disturbed  them  only  when  it  was  expedient 
that  they  serve  some  purpose  like  the  cruel  intimidation 
to  which  Judge  Boynton  had  been  subjected.  And  now 
they  were  gone.  Shaughnessy  cursed  in  his  heart  the 
fatal  weakness  for  melodramatic  effect,  in  which  he 
was  prone  to  indulge,  that  had  exposed  him  to  this  fatal 
risk. 

But  who  had  them?  Shaughnessy  sprang  up  and 
paced  the  floor.  He  clenched  his  fists  as  he  thought 
of  Judge  Boynton.  Was  it  a  plot  of  his?  He  dismissed 
the  thought  with  a  sneer.  Such  a  desperate  expedient  was 
beyond  the  nerveless  old  jurist. 

He  felt  mechanically  for  his  keys  and  started  to  find 
them  gone.  What  new  deviltry  was  this?  Then,  for  a 
moment,  the  impassive  mask  was  utterly  discarded.  The 
white  face  of  the  baited  boss  grew  absolutely  diabolical, 
and  he  cursed  as  best  he  knew,  and  he  was  not  an  in 
different  expert.  Finally,  with  a  weary  shrug,  he  ceased 
and  walked  to  a  drawer  in  the  bookkeeper's  desk.  He 
wrenched  it  open  and  took  out  two  keys  he  kept  there 
for  emergency's  sake.  One  was  for  the  office  door  and 
the  other  would  admit  him  to  his  lodgings. 

Shaughnessy  picked  up  his  hat,  which  had  fallen  off 
in  the  recent  melee,  dusted  it  and  replaced  it.  He  kicked 
the  cigar,  from  whose  enjoyment  he  had  been  riotously 
debarred,  into  a  corner  and  drew  a  fresh  one  from  his 
case.  Reaching  into  his  vest  pocket  for  a  match,  his 
fingers  encountered  something.  Drawing  it  forth,  his 


i8o  THE  LASH 

eyes  rested  upon  the  card  which  O'Byrn,  on  a  recent 
evening,  had  with  easy  insolence  handed  him. 

The  boss'  eyes,  indifferent  at  first,  stared  fixedly  at 
the  card.  Slowly  kindling  into  the  interest  born  of 
sudden  recollection  of  the  incident,  the  sparks  deepened 
till  they  glowed  like  the  orbs  of  an  angry  cat.  Shaugh- 
nessy  pondered,  his  face  an  evil  thing  to  see. 

"Damn  you !"  muttered  Shaughnessy,  at  last,  still  star 
ing  balefully  at  the  card,  "I  believe  one  of  'em  was  you, 

God  help  you !" 

************** 

Micky  went  straight  from  Shaughnessy's  to  the  Courier 
office  that  night,  and,  after  his  brief  communication  with 
Harkins,  he  repaired  to  his  lodgings.  He  lighted  his 
heater,  and,  with  a  fresh  cigar  between  his  teeth,  sat 
down  to  peruse  at  leisure  the  documents  he  had  previously 
glanced  over  sufficiently  to  warrant  him  in  making  his 
triumphant  prediction  to  the  city  editor.  A  damning 
array  of  evidence  was  marshaled  in  them,  illustrating 
at  once  Shaughnessy's  ruthless  manner  of  binding  a  cabal 
to  his  interests  and  his  weakness  in  recording  in  black 
and  white  such  condemnatory  proofs  of  the  infamy  of 
the  forces  of  which  he  was  the  leader,  and  for  whose 
deeds  he  was  responsible.  It  was  a  quixotic  idea  of  the 
boss',  effective  to  bend  his  tools  to  his  desires,  but  fatal  if 
the  accredited  proofs  ever  became  public  property.  Per 
haps,  Micky  reflected,  he  had  intended  them  for  use  if 
treachery  ever  compelled  him  to  leave  in  a  hurry,  in 
which  case  the  traitors  would  suffer  while  the  arch-con 
spirator  went  scot-free.  If  this  was  the  intent,  events 
had  anticipated  it. 

The  most  important  exposure,  for  O'Byrn's  purpose, 


A  COUNTER  MOVE  181 

was  the  one,  duly  fortified  with  proof  in  the  papers  be 
fore  him,  that  Judge  Boynton  was  a  hypocrite.  He  could 
only  conjecture  how  the  Judge  had  placed  himself  in 
Shaughnessy's  power,  but  that  he  had  long  since  done 
so,  through  some  official  act  of  weakness  or  worse,  was 
evident.  For  the  papers  proved  that  the  old  jurist, 
supposed  to  be  a  power  for  good,  had  been  for  years 
a  power  for  evil.  It  was  as  a  secret  instigator  of  lobbies 
at  the  State  House  that  he  had  shone,  while  the  world 
remained  in  ignorance.  Not  alone  notorious  Consolidated 
Gas,  but  many  another  nefarious  movement  had  owed 
its  progress  in  no  small  degree  to  his  secret  machina 
tions,  and  he  had  been  well  aided.  Micky  opened  his 
eyes  at  some  names  which  appeared  in  that  damning 
record,  as  well  he  might,  for  they  were  those  of  the 
elect.  Indeed,  the  evidence  utterly  condemned  one  of 
the  pillars  of  the  present  Fusion  movement.  Oh,  it 
would  be  a  slaughter,  in  very  truth ;  one  of  whose  extent 
the  optimistic  Micky  had  not  dreamed. 

As  he  read  the  record,  O'Byrn  marvelled  at  one  salient 
fact.  These  men,  of  brains  and  influence,  of  power 
and  standing,  were  after  all  but  the  tools  of  Shaugh- 
nessy,  the  liquor  dealer,  the  local  boss.  Local  boss ! 
Micky  could  have  laughed.  Why,  this  genius  of  the 
slums  had  his  pallid  hand  at  the  throat  of  the  State, 
and  his  snaky  eyes  were  even  now  fixed  on  victims  in 
higher  places,  even  beyond  its  too-confined  borders. 
O'Byrn  was  lost  in  admiration  of  the  man  whose  power 
was  the  greater  because  unsuspected  by  the  great  public. 
He  moved  with  much  sinuous  subtlety,  like  a  serpent 
wriggling  through  the  grass.  He  tempted  through  the 
cupidity  of  men  worth  while,  and  when  they  were  in 


1 82  THE  LASH 

his  coils  they  were  held  there  irrevocably.  He  was  a 
Napoleon  of  graft,  and  his  ambition  was  as  boundless  as 
that  of  the  Corsican. 

There  were  in  the  record,  too,  the  hints  of  several 
matters  that  would  bear  amplifying;  stupendous  elec 
tion  frauds,  fraudulent  registration  lists  and  corrupt  local 
deals.  Micky  knew  where  to  get  them,  but  it  would  be 
a  strenuous  day.  It  was  with  a  mingled  thrill  and  a 
sigh  that  he  finally  tumbled  into  bed  for  a  little  sleep  be 
fore  the  deluge  to  come. 

He  awoke  unrefreshed,  his  sleep  having  been  disturbed 
by  wild  dreams  of  conflict  with  Shaughnessy  in  which 
the  boss  was  invariably  the  victor.  Despite  the  reassur 
ing  presence  of  the  materials  for  a  sensation,  Micky  felt 
depressed  while  dressing.  There  was  still  much  to  do, 
there  were  some  hard  propositions  to  solve  during  the 
day,  and  there  might  yet  be  a  fatal  slip  somewhere. 
Besides,  he  felt  physically  wretched.  He  had  caught 
cold  in  some  way  and  his  head  ached  miserably.  Then, 
too,  in  the  depths  of  his  heart  there  was  a  sick,  un 
acknowledged  apprehension ;  for  the  old  enemy,  after  too 
brief  a  period  of  quiesence,  was  returning. 

Micky  finished  dressing,  and  left  the  house  for  the 
restaurant,  at  which  he  was  accustomed  to  obtain  his 
meals.  On  the  way  he  passed  an  attractive  door.  He 
hesitated,  halted  and  turned  back.  "One  won't  hurt," 
he  muttered,  as  he  disappeared  inside.  "Just  for  an  ap 
petizer." 

Breakfast  finished,  Micky,  with  a  renewed  sparkle 
in  his  eyes,  plunged  headlong  into  his  self-appointed 
task,  and  it  was  a  formidable  one.  There  were  sundry 
peculiar  documents  to  scan.  Obstacles  in  getting  at 


A  COUNTER  MOVE  183 

them  had  to  be  surmounted,  either  through  subtlety  or 
a  bluff,  and  O'Byrn  was  a  past  master  in  both  depart 
ments.  There  were  some  men  to  see.  Some  could  be 
handled  with  a  convenient  disguising  of  the  real  in 
tention.  Others,  made  to  admit  damaging  matters 
through  cowardly  fears,  were  left  in  the  hope  that  they 
had  secured  immunity  for  themselves.  There  was  also 
the  omnipresent  danger,  most  dreaded  by  newspaper 
men  on  the  track  of  a  big  story,  of  competitors  who 
must  be  sedulously  avoided.  O'Byrn  dodged  them  all, 
though  with  some  narrow  escapes,  and  it  became  evident 
that  the  story,  in  every  detail,  was  to  be  his  and  his 
alone. 

As  Micky  pursued  his  perilous  though  fascinating  task, 
the  story  grew,  gathering  black  force  and  sinister  pro 
portions.  As  the  busy  hours  swept  on,  crowded  with 
strained  effort,  the  Irishman  felt  to  the  full  the  strange, 
breathless  zest  felt  only  by  the  veteran  newsgetter ;  hot 
on  the  trail  of  a  big  story,  warned  constantly  by  the 
remorseless  ticks  of  his  watch  of  fast  slipping  time  that 
waits  for  no  man.  The  hungry  presses  must  be  fed  at 
the  appointed  hour.  Brain,  hand,  resource  and  tireless 
effort  must  combine  to  furnish  the  monster's  food.  So 
O'Byrn  rushed  through  the  teeming  hours.  He  cut  out 
luncheon,  gulping  down  a  glass  of  whisky  in  place  of 
it.  He  had  been  dramming  at  intervals  since  breakfast, 
and  he  no  longer  approached  the  bar  with  hesitancy. 
The  excitement  of  his  quest  made  him  reckless  and  the 
stuff  served  as  an  exhilarant,  though  he  had  not  yet  begun 
to  seriously  feel  its  effects. 

He  was  completely  engrossed  in  his  story.  He  scurried 
here  and  there,  as  need  required,  gathering  force  like 


184  THE  LASH 

a  machine  under  the  quickening  beat  of  the  controlling 
engine.  He  was  driven  resistlessly  on  by  that  steadiest, 
most  unfaltering  of  human  impulses,  the  quickened  news 
instinct.  It  was  a  task  before  which  many  a  veteran 
would  have  quailed,  but  O'Byrn  did  not  know  how  to 
lie  down.  He  had,  too,  a  distinct  advantage  in  his 
wonderful  memory.  It  enabled  him  to  carry  away  val 
uable  material  gained  in  conversations  where  the  produc 
ing  of  a  notebook  would  have  been  fatal. 

It  was  well  toward  evening  that  Slade  met  him  un 
ostentatiously  in  a  quiet  place.  "What  luck?"  he  inquired 
eagerly. 

"Got  the  whole  business,"  answered  Micky,  in  a  low 
tone.  "I'm  just  finished,  and  I'm  all  in.  Knees  jackin' 
some  and  nerves  gone  up.  But  anyone  that's  worth 
doin'  at  all  is  worth  doin'  well,  and  Shaughnessy's  well 
done.  Now  I'll  tell  you  what,  let's  have  a  cocktail  or 
two,  and  then  some  supper.  Time  enough  to  grind  this 
out  after  that." 

Slade  glanced  at  him  sharply,  noting  the  flushed  cheeks 
and  unnaturally  bright  eyes.  "Haven't  you  had  enough?" 
he  inquired. 

"Enough?"  echoed  Micky,  with  a  reckless  laugh. 
"Why,  I  haven't  begun  yet.  But  I'll  cut  it  out  for  tonight, 
after  supper,  and  tomorrow,  when  the  job's  done,  I'll 
celebrate."  He  led  the  way  to  the  bar,  and  Slade,  with 
a  little  head-shake,  followed.  He  recollected  an  episode 
in  Shaughnessy's  place,  the  night  before,  with  distinct 
regret. 

Neither  of  them  had  noticed  a  man  sitting  at  a  small 
table,  in  a  dark  corner,  not  far  from  where  they  had 
been  talking.  He  slipped  quietly  out  as  the  two  ordered 


A  COUNTER  MOVE  185 

their  drinks.  It  was  Shaughnessy's  lieutenant,  Dick 
Peterson. 

Slade  succeeded  in  inducing  Micky  to  content  him 
self  with  a  couple  of  rounds  and  lured  him  away  to  sup 
per.  Much  to  his  disgust,  O'Byrn  insisted  upon  going  to 
a  place  with  which  a  saloon  was  connected.  There  was 
another  appetizer,  and  O'Byrn  ate  heartily,  the  food  ap 
parently  serving  to  restore  him  to  sense.  All  might  have 
been  well,  but  on  passing  out  through  the  saloon,  O'Byrn 
intending  to  go  directly  to  the  Courier  office,  he  met  a 
party  of  friends.  Despite  Slade's  protestations  he  de 
cided  that  he  had  time  for  "one  or  two  more." 

A  few  more  draughts  of  the  stuff  produced  the  result 
that  was  usual  with  him  when  indulging.  Clear-headed 
at  the  first,  the  stimulant  suddenly  fired  his  brain,  ren 
dering  him  deaf  to  protests  or  the  voice  of  reason.  It 
was  the  way  in  which  many  a  debauch  of  days  or  even 
weeks  had  been  ushered  in.  He  sought  only  to  quench 
a  fiendish  thirst,  to  indulge  a  mad,  grotesque  merriment. 
He  was  hazily  conscious  of  Slade's  pleadings  for  him 
to  come  away,  of  his  attempts  several  times  to  do  so,  of 
dimly  hearing  the  imperious  call  of  duty ;  of  being- 
dragged  back  for  another  round  by  his  boisterous  com 
panions.  After  a  time  he  missed  Slade,  and  forgot  about 
him  for  a  while. 

Some  time  afterward,  while  gazing  blankly  at  the 
clock  in  some  saloon  or  other,  he  did  not  know  where, 
a  swift  terror  seized  him.  There  was  grim  accusation 
in  the  clock's  face.  Micky  took  advantage  of  the  mo 
mentarily  diverted  attention  of  his  companions  to  slip 
quietly  out.  His  story ;  yes,  he  must  surely  get  to  writing 


186  THE  LASH 

it.     Ought  to  have  started  it  before,  he  reflected  con 
fusedly. 

Well,  here  was  luck.  A  carriage  stood  near  the  cafe. 
Micky  advanced  toward  it,  and  the  driver  jumped  down 
and  flung  open  the  door.  O'Byrn  entered,  with  a  drowsy 
order  to  drive  to  the  Courier  office.  Then,  ere  the  door 
closed,  he  felt  a  vague  curiosity  as  two  additional  passen 
gers  followed  him  into  the  vehicle.  The  door  was  slammed 
shut,  the  driver  mounted  his  box  and  the  rolling  wheels 
lulled  Micky  into  drowsiness  that  was  not  disturbed  by 
his  silent  companions. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

SUSPENSE 

COLONEL  Westlake,  the  principal  owner  of  the 
Courier  and  the  man  who  actively  dictated  its 
policy,  sat  in  the  library  of  his  home  that  night 
with  a  look  upon  his  face  different  than  he  had 
worn  of  late.     As  the  leader  of  the  Fusion  movement, 
for  which  he  had  expended  much  labor  and  time,  things 
had  looked  black  to  him  until  today,  and  his  face  had 
worn  the  expression  that  belongs  to  him  who  is  righting 
a  grim,  losing  battle.     He  saw  the  opposition  forging 
ahead  with  a  resistless  sweep  which  he  and  his  co-work 
ers  could  not  stop,  and  it  had  been  maddening. 

But  tonight  a  bright  gleam  of  hope  had  dispelled  the 
gloom  of  the  Colonel's  face.  He  had  visited  the  office 
that  afternoon  and  had  a  talk  with  the  managing  editor, 
who  had  told  him  of  the  effort  that  was  in  progress  to 
checkmate  the  plans  of  the  ring.  He  could  tell  the 
Colonel  but  few  particulars,  for  Micky  had  not  confided 
many  of  them  to  his  superiors  as  yet.  Indeed,  he  had  had 
no  time  to  do  so.  But  the  information  was  cheering 
enough  to  cause  the  Colonel  to  smoke  his  cigar  that 
evening  with  an  easier  mind.  "That  fellow  can  get  it 
if  anybody  can,"  he  had  been  told,  and  the  assurance 
fanned  his  dying  hope  into  renewed  flame. 

The  Courier's  editorial  rooms  were  unusually  replete 


1 88  THE  LASH 

of  life  that  night.  To  be  sure,  it  was  an  old  story, 
that  record  of  life  and  death  and  the  things  that  go 
between,  called  news ;  ground  out  there  three  hundred 
and  sixty-five  nights  in  the  year.  One  night,  generally 
speaking,  was  very  like  another  to  the  various  cogs 
in  the  human  machine.  Most  of  them  were  past  cub- 
hood,  and  the  shifts  of  scene  entailed  by  succeeding  as 
signments,  that  once  hel~d  a  fresh  charm  of  novelty,  now 
spelled  grim  duty.  Most  men  have  illusions,  but  the 
jaded  newsgetter  loses  them  first  of  all.  Most  men 
may  dream  of  what  they  may  become ;  the  newsgetter 
only  of  what  he  did  not  become.  However,  there  is 
a  compensation.  The  newsgetter  has  acquired  philosophy, 
the  real  salt  of  the  earth.  It  is  better  to  watch  one's  Rome 
burning  with  philosophy  than  to  collect  the  insurance 
thereon  without  it. 

However,  on  this  night  there  was  a  brooding  excite 
ment  in  the  air.  The  big  room  fairly  throbbed  with 
it ;  the  sense  of  an  impending  something  whose  signifi 
cance  but  few  of  the  force  divined,  but  which  they 
all  felt.  The  harassed,  anxious  expressions  on  the  faces 
of  Harkins  and  a  few  others  of  the  editorial  force ; 
their  frequent  glances  at  the  big  clock,  their  nervous 
onslaughts  upon  the  mass  of  work,  for  it  was  a  teeming 
night,  revealed  to  every  rushed  reporter  in  the  great 
room  that  there  was  something  on  and  that  it  was  some 
thing  big.  They  stole  covert  glances  at  their  chiefs  and 
at  each  other,  wondering  what  it  was. 

Time  wore  on  while  the  tension  grew.  The  big  calm 
clock  reeled  off  the  flying  minutes  with  exasperating  in 
sistence.  The  clock  is  the  merciless  monitor  of  the  news 
paper  office.  Men  watch  it,  fear  it,  serve  it  as  they 


SUSPENSE  189 

must.  They  hurl  the  forces  of  head  and  hand,  when 
the  need  calls,  in  a  desperate  fight  against  it,  till  its 
tickings  are  drowned  in  the  roar  of  the  presses  that  hold 
the  dearly  bought  triumph ;  while  the  toiler  sits  spent 
and  worn,  body  and  brain  full  of  the  numb  weariness  of 
the  reaction.  Even  as  the  roar  of  the  presses  dies  in 
silence,  there  is  again  audible  the  eternal  ticking  of 
the  clock,  unresting  through  it  all ;  registering  in  one 
breath  the  death  of  a  day  of  labor,  the  birth  of  another  in 
the  next.  Always  the  grim  spectre  with  the  scythe  stands 
at  the  elbows  of  the  men  who  write  the  news. 

So  the  Courier's  clock  ticked  on,  while  the  hidden 
undercurrent  of  unrest,  so  patent  even  to  those  ignorant 
of  the  reason  for  it,  grew  in  a  fierce,  irritating  tug  that 
was  made  manifest  in  disagreeable  ways.  Harkins'  nerves 
were  worn  to  shreds.  His  usual  urbanity  withered  like 
dry  grass  in  the  fire  of  his  hot  impatience.  The  office 
fairly  throbbed  now,  for  it  was  an  extraordinarily  busy 
night.  Election  was  close  at  hand,  the  entire  city  was 
wrought  up  over  it,  everything  else  had  seemingly  hap 
pened  and  was  all  coming  in  at  once.  Still  there  was 
that  hungry  gap,  waiting  to  be  filled  with  the  story  of 
a  lifetime.  Where  was  the  story? 

It  was  exasperating.  Everywhere  men  were  rushing 
like  mad  and  Harkins  helped  them  rush  the  more.  His 
orders  were  snapped  with  the  venom  of  a  cracking  whip 
lash,  accompanied  by  black  frowns  that  caused  backs 
to  bend  and  fingers  to  fly  the  more,  or  legs  to  hurry 
the  faster,  as  his  behest  might  be.  It  became  a  drive, 
a  dizzy  whirl  of  effort,  torn  with  conflicting  sights  and 
sounds.  There  materialized  hurrying  figures,  sharp  or 
ders,  the  jingle  of  telephone  bells,  the  slamming  of 


190  THE  LASH 

doors,  the  sleet-like  rattle  of  typewriters,  the  soft  rush 
of  many  pencils  and  the  crackle  of  paper;  the  hundred 
and  one  distractions  that  contribute  in  the  compilation 
of  the  record  of  a  day  of  news.  And  constantly,  as  the 
whirl  gained  in  volume  like  a  rising  wind,  Harkins'  tor 
tured  eyes  re-sought  the  clock,  and  they  held  all  the 
miserable  apprehension  of  a  miser  for  precious,  fleeting 
gold. 

"Gee!"  exclaimed  Kirk  to  Peters,  as  he  passed  that 
worthy  at  the  end  of  the  room,  and  paused  a  moment 
to  wipe  his  moist  forehead,  "it's  fierce,  ain't  it?  Har 
kins  is  getting  crazy.  There's  something  up.  What 
is  it?" 

"No,"  replied  Peters,  with  an  apprehensive  glance  to 
ward  Harkins,  "there's  nothing  up,  I  guess.  I  think 
there's  something  ought  to  be  up  that  isn't.  That's  the 
rub.  Never  saw  Hark'  so  worked  up  in  my  life." 

"Yes,  but  what  is  it?"  reiterated  Kirk.  "It's  some 
thing  big,  that's  sure." 

"I  don't  know  anything  more  about  it  than  you  do, 
but  I've  noticed  one  thing.  O'Byrn  hasn't  shown  up 
tonight.  I  think  Hark'  expected  him,  and  with  some 
thing."  He  nodded  meaningly  and  they  separated. 

Suddenly  Harkins  summoned  Glenwood,  who  had  the 
week  previous  been  made  his  assistant.  Dick  had  been 
also  growing  nervous  for  the  last  half-hour,  his  eyes 
constantly  seeking  the  door,  hopeful  of  a  desired  arrival 
which  was  strangely  delayed.  The  story  should  have 
been  well  under  way  by  then.  Dick  guessed  how  for 
midable  an  undertaking  it  had  undoubtedly  proved  and 
had  at  first  explained  Micky's  delay  in  appearing  bv, 


SUSPENSE  191 

the  assumed  magnitude  of  the  little  Irishman's  task.  But 
now  Dick  had  grown  painfully  anxious. 

He  hurried  to  Harkins'  desk.  The  city  editor  looked 
up  with  a  black  scowl,  viciously  chewing  a  cigar  stub. 
His  uneasy  fingers  drummed  a  tattoo  upon  his  desk. 

"For  God's  sake,  Glenwood,"  he  burst  out,  "what's 
the  matter?  It's  ten  o'clock.  Have  you  heard  any 
thing?" 

"Only  that  telephone  message  he  sent  me  early  this 
afternoon,"  replied  Dick.  "It  was  short  but  significant. 
You  know  I  told  you." 

Harkins  groaned.  "Yes,"  he  assented,  "he  said  he'd 
need  the  whole  paper  tomorrow  and  a  few  extras.  And 
now  where  the  devil  is  he,  anyway  ?  Where  was  he  when 
he  sent  you  that  message?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Dick  answered.  "Richards  called  me 
to  the  'phone,  said  someone  wanted  me.  I  recognized 
Micky's  voice.  He  just  blurted  out  that  information 
and  broke  away  before  I  could  reply.  I  tried  to  get  him 
to  ask  him  if  he  needed  any  help  and  when  he  would  get 
here,  but  he  had  gone." 

Harkins'  eyes  contracted.  "Dick,  do  you  think — "  he 
began  meaningly. 

"No!"  interrupted  Dick  vehemently,  "not  at  a  time  like 
this !  Still — Oh,  the  poor  devil !"  he  broke  off,  for  the 
remembrance  swept  over  him  of  a  certain  shamed  ad 
mission  to  him  of  O'Byrn's  own,  the  acknowledgment  of 
the  reason  for  a  bootless  career. 

There  was  a  brief  silence,  broken  by  Harkins'  voice, 
raised  in  loud  summons.  "Has  anyone  seen  O'Byrn  to 
night?"  he  asked. 

Peters  glanced  significantly  at  Kirk.     There  was  no 


192  THE  LASH 

immediate  answer,  but  a  fat  figure,  waddling  on  its  way 
from  the  elevator  to  the  desk,  hesitated  and  finally  halted. 
An  odd  breathless  voice  broke  the  sudden  silence,  the 
voice  of  Fatty  Stearns. 

"O'Byrn?"  he  queried,  "did  you  say  O'Byrn,  Mr. 
Harkins?" 

"Yes,"  exploded  Harkins,  frowning  heavily  upon  the 
quailing  Stearns.  "Have  you  seen  him?" 

"Why,  yes,"  assented  Fatty  faintly,  while  fidgeting 
upon  his  chubby  feet.  "That  is,  I  did,"  explosively,  "about 
eight  o'clock." 

"Well,"  fairly  shouted  his  irritated  chief,  "where  was 
he?  What's  the  matter  with  you?" 

"Why,  nothin',"  ejaculated  Fatty  desperately.  "I 
wasn't  with  him !  I  kept  out  of  sight  so  he  and  the 
gang  wouldn't  see  me.  They  were  heading  for  O'Sul- 
livan's  saloon." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  "Stearns,"  said  liar- 
kins  finally,  his  tone  now  one  of  quiet  resignation,  "why 
didn't  you  tell  me  this  before?" 

"You  didn't  ask  me,"  Fatty  answered  in  an  injured 
way,  sidling  toward  his  desk.  "And  besides,"  as  an 
afterthought,  "you  couldn't,  for  I  wasn't  here.  You'd 
sent  me  out  on  that  armory  business,  don't  you  know  ?" 

Harkins  and  Glenwood  looked  hopelessly  at  each  other. 
"No  telling  where  he  is  now,"  said  the  city  editor  wearily, 
"or  the  shape  he's  in.  It's  all  up,  I  guess." 

Dick's  fist  rapped  his  desk  smartly,  his  lips  met  in  a 
grim  line.  "Not  yet!"  he  exclaimed.  "It's  worth  a 
try,  anyway.  I'm  going  to  see  if  I  can  find  him." 

He  turned  away,  nearly  colliding  with  a  meagre  little 


SUSPENSE  193 

man  who  was  hurrying  toward  him  from  the  elevator. 
"You're  Mr.  Glenwood?"  asked  this  worthy. 

"Yes,"  assented  Dick,  with  a  glance  of  inquiry. 

"I  know  you  by  sight,"  rapidly  pursued  the  visitor.  "I 
was  mixed  up  once  in  a  little  deal  at  Goldberg's  with  a 
friend  of  yours,  Micky  O'Byrn.  You  came  on  after  I 
slid,"  with  a  dry  grin.  "But  that's  nothin'  to  do  with 
this.  You  fellows  are  waitin'  for  somethin',"  with  a 
shrewd  glance  at  Harkins'  worried  face,  "and  the  man 
who's  got  it  is  gettin'  drunker  every  minute.  I  thought 
you  ought  to  know." 

"Do  you  know  where  he  is  ?"  exclaimed  Dick,  grasping 
Slade's  arm  in  his  eagerness.  The  ex-heeler  winced. 

"Sure,"  he  assented.  "I've  got  a  pal  watchin'  'em 
so  as  to  cop  whether  they  do  a  duck  into  another  joint." 

"What  shape  is  he  in?"  asked  Glenwood. 

"Bad,"  replied  Slade  dubiously.  Then,  with  a  ready 
grasp  of  the  situation,  "1  know  a  medicine  cove  that  I'll 
bet  could  put  him  right  in  short  order,  that  is  for  while 
you'd  need  him.  Makes  a  regular  specialty  of  it,  one 
of  his  own  patients  in  fact.  But  you'd  have  to  hurry. 
I'm  with  you  on  the  deal,  for  between  us  I've  got  a  bone 
to  pick  with  Shaughnessy  myself  and  I  want  to  see 
that  story  in  tomorrow's  paper.  Why,  I  put  O'Byrn 
onto  it." 

Dick  turned  sharply  to  Harkins.  "Get  everything 
ready,  I'll  have  him  here,"  he  said  confidently.  "We'll 
fix  him  up  some  way.  Hang  it,  we've  got  to!  Of 
course,  it'll  have  to  be  dictation.  I'll  'phone  you  outlook 
just  as  soon  as  I  can,"  he  added,  seizing  coat  and  hat, 
"and  you  clear  the  decks.  Now,  Slade,"  and  the  two 
hurried  to  the  elevator. 


194  THE  LASH 

Dick  hailed  a  cab.  "To  Lawrence's  saloon,  on  Forty- 
Fifth,  and  be  quick  about  it!"  directed  Slade,  and  the 
two  sprang  in. 

"I  had  supper  with  him,"  explained  Slade,  as  the  cab 
rolled  rapidly  northward,  "and  he  insisted  on  a  couple 
of  drinks.  He'd  had  several  then,  I  guess.  Then  he 
was  going  to  start  for  the  office,  but  a  gang  blew  along. 
Then  it  was  all  off,"  with  an  expressive  shrug.  "Stuff 
seemed  to  go  to  his  head  all  in  a  flash,  and  he  wouldn't 
listen  to  anything.  I  kept  along  for  a  while  and  tried 
to  sneak  him  away.  He'd  start  all  right,  but  the  gang 
would  drag  him  back  and  play  rough-house  with  me 
and  chuck  me  out.  About  eight  we  came  near  running 
into  some  parties  I  didn't  want  to  see  and  I  simply  had  to 
duck  for  a  while.  He  was  in  a  gin-mill  near  the  City 
Hall  then,  and  I  lost  him  some  way.  It  was  two  hours, 
pretty  near,  before  I  copped  him  again,  this  time  in 
Lawrence's.  I  got  a  friend  o'  mine  to  watch  the  place, 
then  I  caught  a  car  for  your  office." 

The  cab  stopped  before  a  brilliantly  lighted  cafe  and 
the  men  tumbled  out.  A  young  fellow,  loitering  about, 
approached  Slade.  "Well,  he's  gone,"  said  he. 

"Gone!"  echoed  Slade.    "Where?" 

"I  dunno.  No  call  for  me  buttin'  in.  He  got  in  a 
carriage  with  Dick  Peterson  and  another  fellow  and  they 
drove  off." 

"Shaughnessy !"  exclaimed  Slade,  with  a  livid  oath. 
"Come  on,  there's  no  time  to  lose!"  He  dragged  Dick 
toward  the  cab.  "Shaughnessy's  rooms,  you  know  'em 
— drive  like  hell !"  he  told  the  driver,  and  they  were  off 
like  the  wind. 


CHAPTER  XX 

OUT  OF  THE  PAST 

THE  carriage  stopped,  unheeded  by  O'Byrn,  who 
drowsed,  huddled  in  a  corner.  ''Come  on,"  said 
a  gruff  voice,  we're  there."  An  ungentle  hand 
shook  the  Irishman  rudely. 

Confused  and  dazed,  Micky  stumbled  out.  With  a 
man  at  each  arm,  he  was  whisked  through  a  doorway 
and  up  a  flight  of  stairs  that  led  to  a  suite  of  rooms 
over  a  corner  grocery.  Shaughnessy  was  unostentatious 
in  his  manner  of  living,  as  he  was  in  matters  of  political 
procedure. 

Before  the  befuddled  O'Byrn  had  gathered  his  dead 
ened  wits  sufficiently  to  decide  that  his  would-be  friends 
had  mistaken  his  intended  destination,  the  trio  halted  be 
fore  a  door  which  opened  without  any  preliminary  for 
mality  of  knocking.  "Ah,  come  in,  gentlemen,"  said  a 
remembered  voice,  which  brought  Micky  to  wavering  at 
tention.  Then  he  was  pushed  inside,  into  the  presence  of 
Shaughnessy.  He  stared  for  a  moment  about  the  plainly 
but  comfortably  furnished  room,  then  into  the  black  eyes 
of  his  host.  Just  now  they  were  alight  with  triumphant 
gleams.  Micky  sat  down  in  sudden  hopeless,  though 
rather  hazy,  despair. 

"All  right,  boys ;  a  good  job,"  said  Shaughnessy,  a 
certain  insistence  in  his  tone.  Peterson  took  the  hint. 


196  THE  LASH 

He  plucked  his  companion  by  the  sleeve  and  the  two  with 
drew.  Their  footsteps  died  in  silence  down  the  stairs, 
followed  in  a  moment  by  the  diminishing  roll  of  wheels. 

"Well,  Mr.  O'Byrn,"  said  Shaughnessy,  suavely,  "I'd 
like  my  keys  if  you're  through  with  them,  and  I  rather 
guess  you  are." 

"Keys?"  echoed  Micky,  a  vague  and  rueful  grin  re 
luctantly  visiting  his  face,  "yes,  I  guess  so.  Took  'em 
for  a  joke.  You  can  have  'em  and  be  hanged !"  He 
threw  them  violently  on  the  floor  and  continued  to  stare 
rather  helplessly  about  the  room.  Shaughnessy,  un 
ruffled,  bent  to  pick  up  his  property,  stepped  for  a  moment 
to  the  door,  then  seated  himself  on  a  chair,  facing  Micky, 
who  sprawled  supinely  on  a  sofa. 

"Who  was  with  you  in  my  office  last  night?"  he  inquired 
casually.  "You  know — when  you  got  these?" 

"Don't  you  know?"  Micky's  utterance  was  rather 
thick,  but  there  was  a  cunning  gleam  in  his  eye.  No 
amount  of  intoxicants,  that  the  Irishman  had  ever  taken 
at  any  time  in  his  checkered  career,  had  even  temporarily 
robbed  him  of  his  sharp  wits.  Even  though  he  might 
not  be  able  to  remember  it  afterward,  the  busy  brain  was 
in  evidence  throughout  the  spree ;  and  the  sub-conscious 
intelligence  of  the  fellow,  even  when  he  was  nearly  phys 
ically  helpless  from  over-indulgence,  had  often  staggered 
his  associates. 

Shaughnessy  was  now  to  have  a  taste  of  this.  "Don't 
you  know  ?"  O'Byrn  had  asked  innocently  and  very  thick 
ly.  Shaughnessy  smiled  dryly.  The  fellow  was  suffi 
ciently  drunk  to  be  as  wax  in  the  boss'  hands. 

"No,  I  don't,"  mildly  replied  Shaughnessy,  and  waited 
for  the  desired  information. 


OUT  OF  THE  PAST  197 

"Well,"  answered  Micky,  with  a  tipsy  laugh,  "I'm 
mighty  glad  you  don't.  And  now  see  here,  let  me  out 
of  here.  I've  got  business — business  to  attend  to." 

"Yes,"  assented  Shaughnessy  softly,  "you  want  to  go 
to  the  Courier  office.  But  hold  on  a  minute  first,  I  want 
to  have  a  little  chat  with  you,  and  it  will  be  to  your 
advantage  to  listen  to  reason.  I  suppose  you're  wonder 
ing  why  you're  here.  Well,  when  I  got  out  from  the 
influence  of  your  dope  last  night,  I  happened  to  pull  out1 
of  rny  pocket  the  card  you  gave  me.  Without  bothering 
to  ask  just  why,  I  knew  I  had  you  to  thank  for  that  little 
job.  I  don't  know  who  was  with  you,  but  I'll  find  out. 
Anyway,  there've  been  good  sharp  eyes  lookin'  for  you 
all  day,  but,  as  the  cursed  luck  would  have  it,  they  didn't 
cop  you  till  tonight.  You  were  getting  drunk  then,  mak 
ing  it  easier  for  us.  Much  obliged  to  you.  Now,  where 
are  those  papers  ?" 

O'Byrn  leered  with  impish  eyes.  "Gimme  a  cigar,"  he 
suggested.  The  boss  handed  him  one  with  a  scowl. 
O'Byrn  lighted  it  uncertainly  and  began  unevenly  to  puff 
at  it. 

The  boss  waited  silently  a  moment,  then  a  smouldering 
fire  crept  into  his  eyes.  He  brought  his  fist  down  upon 
the  arm  of  his  chair  with  an  oath.  O'Byrn's  wandering 
glance  shifted  lazily  to  Shaughnessy. 

"Aha !  my  smart  young  rooster,"  growled  the  boss,  "I 
know  who  was  with  you  last  night.  I'm  getting  dippy, 
or  I'd  have  thought  of  it  sooner.  I  forgot  who  Peterson 
said  was  with  you  when  he  first  set  eyes  on  you  tonight. 
So  it's  Nick  Slade,  is  it,  that  helped  you  with  your  little 
job  last  night?" 


198  THE  LASH 

"Lemme  out  and  I'll  ask  him  for  you,"  suggested  the 
Irishman.  "I  haven't  got  time  to  talk  to  you." 

"Now  see  here,"  urged  Shaughnessy,  "I  want  those 
papers.  I  suppose  you've  got  'em  on  you."  Micky  made 
a  mock  gesture  of  alarm  which  the  boss  evidently  believed 
was  genuine,  for  he  permitted  himself  a  slight,  sneering 
smile  of  triumph.  "Well,"  he  continued,  "I'm  on  the 
level,  I  am.  I'm  not  playing  any  dirty  stab-in-the-back 
games  like  that  little  one  of  yours  last  night.  If  you'd 
used  those  papers  as  you  meant  to  do,  why,  there  wouldn't 
have  been  any  use  in  talking  things  over  now.  But  I 
know  well  enough,  for  I've  been  fairly  busy  today,  that 
you  haven't  done  anything  yet  and  tonight's  pretty  near 
your  last  chance  to  scribble.  Scribble?  You're  in  good 
shape  for  the  job,  ain't  you?  Why,  I'll  bet  you  don't 
get  the  sense  of  twenty  words  I've  said.  But  listen,  you 
can  get  this."  Shaughnessy  bent  toward  him.  "Turn 
those  papers  over  to  me,  and  do  a  quiet  sneak  out  of  town 
for  good,  and  I'll  make  it  worth  your  while." 

"Yes,"  muttered  O'Byrn,  "I  get  that."  His  body 
swayed  a  moment,  then  straightened.  His  head  wagged 
slowly  from  side  to  side,  for  the  heat  of  the  apartment 
was  oppressive  and  the  room  began  to  whirl  uncannily. 
Micky  leaned  his  throbbing  head  upon  his  clasped  hands. 
Shaughnessy  smiled  sardonically,  believing  him  to  be 
thinking  it  over. 

O'Byrn  lifted  his  head.  "Say,  is  your  name  Shaugh 
nessy?"  he  suddenly  inquired.  The  question  went  home 
like  a  shot.  Even  through  the  mists  that  obscured  his 
vision,  the  little  Irishman  chuckled  as  he  saw  Shaugh 
nessy  start  violently,  saw  his  white  face  go  whiter.  "No," 
pursued  O'Byrn,  with  a  momentary  rally  of  his  faculties, 


j  OUT  OF  THE  PAST  199 

"I  don't  know  what  your  name  used  to  be,  and  I  don't 
care.  I  was  just  guessin',  somehow.  But  I'll  tell  you 
somethin'.  My  name  ain't  O'Byrn  any  more  than  yours 
is  Shaughnessy.  Here's  the  difference.  I  took  the  name 
of  an  honest  man,  an  old  fellow  that  was  a  friend  to  me 
after  my  mother  died.  I  took  it  because  it  was  an  honest 
name,  and  my  father's  wasn't.  I  was  only  a  kid,  but  I 
was  old  enough  to  hate  the  old  man  right,  and  try  to 
change  my  luck  by  shedding  his  rotten  name  like  a  snake's 
skin.  Since  then  I've  rubbed  along,  but  I've  managed  to 
keep  honest,  thank  God,  for  I  was  born  that  way.  Now 
I'll  tell  you  the  difference  between  you  and  me.  I  changed 
my  name  to  get  rid  of  one  that  wasn't  honest,  but 
someone  else  was  to  blame.  You  changed  from  one  ras 
cal's  name  to  another,  that's  all,  and  you're  gettin'  worse 
every  minute.  No,  old  man,  we  won't  make  a  deal  for 
any  papers,  not  this  evening." 

The  fire  faded  in  his  eyes.  With  a  spasmodic  hiccough 
he  fell  back  upon  the  sofa.  The  whirling  room,  which 
he  had  conveniently  forgotten  during  his  flat  statement 
to  Shaughnessy,  swung  once  more  in  rhythmic,  discon 
certing  circles  before  his  swollen  eyes.  "Open  a  win 
dow  !"  he  demanded.  "It's  roasting  in  here !" 

Shaughnessy  had  remained  silent  since  O'Byrn's  out 
burst,  regarding  him  balefully.  'The  window  can  wait," 
he  said  deliberately,  "and  so  can  you,  unless  you  listen  to 
reason.  Now,  you  produce  those  papers,  agreeing  to 
keep  your  mouth  shut  and  get  out  of  town,  for  value 
received,  of  course.  Either  that  or  I'll  promise  you  you'll 
be  kept  quiet  till  after  election,  anyway,  and  maybe  longer. 
Things  are  ripe  now  and  we  can't  afford  to  have  you 
loose," 


200  THE  LASH 

The  fire  was  rekindled  in  O'Byrn's  eyes.  Clenching  his 
hands  he  half  rose  from  the  sofa,  only  to  again  fall  back 
helplessly  upon  it,  with  a  curse,  anathematizing  his  un 
steady  legs  while  he  pressed  his  palms  against  his  whirling 
head.  Shaughnessy  watched  him  with  malicious  satis 
faction. 

Suddenly  the  recurrent  hazy  thought  disturbed  Micky, 
the  accusing  whisper  of  duty  unperformed.  Where  it 
had  lain  dormant  with  faint  stirrings,  it  was  now  im 
perious.  O'Byrn  sat  bolt  upright,  groping  for  his  watch. 
Snapping  the  timepiece  open,  he  stared  at  the  dial.  Even 
through  the  mists,  which  he  could  not  blink  away,  the 
significance  of  the  hour  smote  him  like  a  lash.  For  a 
moment  he  sat  inert,  a  growing  horror  in  his  eyes  that 
stared  straight  ahead.  The  open  watch  slipped  unheeded 
from  his  nerveless  hand  to  the  floor,  striking  the  rug 
with  a  muffled  thud. 

The  sound  roused  O'Byrn.  He  pitched  forward,  gain 
ing  his  feet,  and  reeled  toward  the  door,  which  he  shook 
impotently.  He  turned  to  confront  Shaughnessy's  sneer. 
"The  key — give  me  the  key !"  O'Byrn's  steps  toward 
Shaughnessy  were  unsteady  but  his  face  was  eloquent 
with  settled  purpose.  The  boss  thoughtfully  moved  so 
as  to  put  a  heavy  table,  standing  in  the  center  of  the  room. 
between  him  and  the  angry  Irishman.  His  sneer  faded, 
his  look  spoke  of  uneasy  apprehension.  Shaughnessy  was 
not  a  coward,  but  he  was  not  over-strong ;  and,  to  do  him 
justice,  his  fear  came  more  from  the  possibility  that  the 
strangely  rallied  Irishman  might,  after  all,  escape,  than 
from  any  worry  over  possible  damage  to  himself  in  the 
process. 

Now  O'Byrn  was  opposite  him,  his  hands  resting  on 


OUT  OF  THE  PAST  201 

the  table,  his  blue  eyes  staring  straight  into  the  uneasy 
black  ones  of  the  boss.  For  the  present  at  least,  O'Byrn's 
will,  intent  upon  a  definite  object,  would  control  his 
wavering  limbs.  "Give  me  the  key!"  he  repeated  softly. 
The  tone  was  clear,  the  freckled  face  grim  with  deter 
mination,  the  glaze  of  the  eyes  had  been  burned  away  in 
flame.  It  was  an  uncanny  transformation. 

Shaughnessy,  watching  the  other  warily,  tried  to  tem 
porize.  "Those  papers,"  he  suggested,  "they're  all  I 
want.  Give  them  to  me  and— 

O'Byrn  hurled  the  table  to  one  side,  where  it  fell  with 
a  crash.  He  leaped  forward,  extended  arms  hungry  for 
Shaughnessy.  Now  they  were  reeling  about  the  room, 
locked  together  in  desperate,  voiceless  struggle  for  the 
mastery.  A  chair  fell  heavily.  Now  they  fell  against 
the  prostrate  table,  but  recovered  themselves  with  an 
effort  and  fought  on. 

Shaughnessy  had  been  no  stranger  to  either  physical 
science  or  rough-and-tumble,  in  the  days  before  ill-health 
assailed  him ;  but  older  muscles,  further  handicapped  by 
acquired  weakness  and  long  disuse,  were  not  a  match  for 
those  of  the  wiry  young  man,  even  in  his  present  in 
toxicated  condition.  Shaughnessy,  his  breath  coming  in 
gasps  and  his  face  grown  ghastly,  tried  by  every  recol 
lected  trick  to  trip  O'Byrn,  but  the  latter  wriggled  in 
stinctively  out  of  every  snare.  Now  he  forced  Shaugh 
nessy  once  more  toward  the  fallen  table,  the  boss  resist 
ing  doggedly.  But  he  was  weakening,  and  Micky,  with  a 
sudden  twist,  threw  him  backward  over  one  of  the  pro 
truding  legs  of  the  table  and  fell  heavily  upon  him. 

The  Irishman's  breath,  heavy  with  whisky,  smote  the 
fallen  boss  full  in  the  face.  Shaughnessy,  gasping  and 


202  THE  LASH 

nearly  senseless,  lay  with  his  hand  gripped  hard  at  his 
left  side.  As  though  he  had  dreamed  it  in  his  agony,  he 
felt  his  opponent's  hand  groping  in  a  lower  pocket  of  his 
coat.  There  was  a  faint  jingle — the  keys!  O'Byrn  rose 
with  a  tipsy  laugh,  swayed  a  moment  and  turned  toward 
the  door.  Then,  with  a  supreme  effort,  Shaughnessy 
threw  himself  to  one  side,  reaching  out  a  hand  and  catch 
ing  Micky  about  the  right  ankle.  A  sharp  wrench  jerked 
him  from  his  feet  and  he  fell  heavily,  striking  his  head 
against  the  table  leg  which  had  previously  served  for  the 
downfall  of  the  boss. 

After  a  few  moments,  Shaughnessy  struggled  weakly 
to  his  feet  and  stood  grimly  regarding  the  Irishman,  who 
lay  unconscious,  with  closed  eyes,  the  freckles  staring 
strangely  from  his  pallid  face.  After  a  time  Shaugh 
nessy  bent  down  and  examined  the  reporter's  hurt. 
"Nothing  serious,"  he  muttered,  noting  a  crimson 
abrasion  at  the  right  side  of  the  scalp.  Then  he  thrust 
his  hand  confidently  into  the  inner  pocket  of  O'Byrn's 
coat.  His  look  of  complacency  changed  to  concern.  He 
made  a  thorough  examination  of  the  pockets,  then  rose 
with  a  bitter  oath. 

"Bluffed  me!"  he  muttered  furiously.  "He  hasn't  got 
'em."  He  felt  strangely  weak,  as  the  result  of  the  late 
encounter,  and  moved  languidly  over  to  the  sofa  whereon 
Micky  had  lately  been.  Shaughnessy  sat  down,  with  a 
heavy  sigh,  to  think. 

His  mood*y  eyes  noted  an  object  lying  on  the  rug. 
Leaning  over,  he  picked  up  Micky's  watch.  The  back 
cover  swung  open  in  his  hands,  owing  to  the  defective 
spring,  which  Micky  had  never  had  repaired. 

Shaughnessy  turned  over  the  timepiece  idly,  noting  on 


OUT  OF  THE  PAST  203 

the  inner  cover  a  woman's  picture.  And  in  that  moment 
the  dead-white  face,  ordinarily  an  inscrutable  mask,  be 
came  startling  to  see.  His  black  eyes,  in  which  there 
grew  a  slow,  consuming  horror,  stared  at  the  picture  as  if 
hypnotized  by  it,  and  on  his  face  was  the  look  which  the 
living  might  wear  if  confronted,  without  warning,  by  the 
resurrected  dead. 

After  a  time  Shaughnessy  withdrew  his  gaze,  and,  with 
a  convulsive  movement,  snapped  the  watch  shut.  Slowly, 
fearfully,  he  approached  the  prostrate  young  fellow  on  the 
floor,  afraid  of  what  he  should  see.  Now  he  bent  on  one 
knee  over  the  senseless  O'Byrn,  peering  strangely  into  his 
face.  He  thrust  the  watch  into  the  little  Irishman's 
pocket,  as  if  anxious  to  hide  it  from  his  own  vision. 
Then,  timidly,  he  raised  the  inert  right  arm  of  his  victim 
and  slipped  the  sleeve  up  from  the  wrist.  There  was  the 
scar. 

A  deep  groan  burst  from  Shaughnessy's  lips  ;  in  his  eyes 
gloomed,  with  added  intensity,  the  horror  that  was  the 
heritage  of  the  past. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE    LASH 

IN  the  breadth  and  the  depth  of  evil  in  the  man 
whom  the  world  had  long  known  as  John  Shaugh- 
nessy  there   was   one    wicked   act   whose    memory 
was   torment.     Unprincipled,   ruthless,  cruel  as  he 
was,  this  thing,  perhaps  in  inevitable  reprisal  for  out 
raged   higher  laws,  had   long  haunted  him ;  disturbing 
his  sleep,  embittering  his  waking  hours.     For  it  was  only 
just  that  a  man  base  enough  to  leave,  in  far  worse  case 
than  the  widow  and  the  orphan,  those  he  was  morally  and 
legally  bound  to  protect,  should  be  disturbed  by  ghosts. 
It  was  remorse,  it  had  long  been  remorse,  from  which  this 
calloused  devil  was  suffering.     His  evil,  white  face  was  a 
mask  to  hide  much  that  the  masquerader  would  have 
given  all  at  times  to  have  forgotten. 

For  a  long  time  Shaughnessy  bent  over  the  silent  figure 
on  the  floor;  crouching,  motionless  as  if  cut  in  stone. 
His  eyes,  unnaturally  brilliant,  repellent  in  their  fixed 
glare,  rested  long  on  the  reporter's  unconscious  face. 
That  face — how  freckled,  how  grotesquely  homely !  Why, 
he  had  been  a  handsome  baby!  Still,  the  same  mop  of 
red,  curly  hair ;  and,  after  all,  did  he  but  open  his  eyes 
Shaughnessy  thought  there  would  be  a  definite  resem 
blance  to  another.  Shaughnessy  recollected  having  been 
vaguely  troubled  once  or  twice  before  by  this  half-sensed 


THE  LASH  205 

similitude  of  the  young  fellow  to  someone  he  had  known. 
He  knew  now.  Why,  the  boy  looked  like  his  mother,  of 
course ;  though  there  was  only  a  pathetic  hint  of  it,  for 
his  mother  had  been  very  pretty.  This  Shaughnessy 
could  vouch  for.  Poor  unfortunate,  had  she  not  been  his 
wife? 

And  his  son,  lying  on  the  floor ;  the  son  Shaughnessy 
had  thought  dead;  was  it  not  a  joyful  reunion?  Shaugh 
nessy  groaned  aloud,  for  he  had  long  writhed  under  the 
lash  of  conscience  for  this  one  thing.  The  rest  of  his  ill- 
doing  did  not  trouble  him ;  it  was  for  the  blackest  crime 
of  all,  alone,  that  he  paid  the  penalty.  And  a  bitter 
penalty  he  paid,  for,  whatever  the  seeming,  outraged 
nature  generally  exacts  her  due.  This  man  had  heart 
lessly  deserted  a  wife  who  had  been  devoted  to  him, 
despite  his  deviltry,  and  his  helpless  baby ;  deserted  them 
more  indifferently  than  most  men  would  leave  a  dog.  It 
was  slow  in  coming,  the  time  of  reckoning,  but  the  day 
came  when  the  black  heart  and  soul  of  Shaughnessy  quiv 
ered  under  the  lash.  And  the  lash  bit  the  deeper  because 
of  the  need  for  repression,  for  the  man  writhed  in  secret. 
It  was  Shaughnessy  who  lived ;  the  other  man  was  dead ; 
yet  his  foul  ghost,  with  the  memory  of  the  foul  deed  he 
wrought,  would  not  be  laid. 

Shaughnessy,  with  a  haggard  glance  at  the  motionless 
form  on  the  floor,  rose  and  walked  uncertainly  to  an  easy 
chair.  He  sat  limply,  a  thin,  white  hand  shading  his 
eyes.  He  was  oblivious  to  his  surroundings,  for  the 
tumult  of  the  past  pounded  in  his  brain. 

The  tumult  of  the  past !  What  a  record  had  been  his, 
this  white-faced  man  with  hunted  eyes  that  now  stared 
with  a  weird,  fixed  horror  back  into  the  past.  They  saw 


206  THE  LASH 

again  another  man  than  the  Shaughnessy  of  vile  political 
power ;  a  younger  man,  in  whom  was  no  repression ;  the 
slave  of  wayward  passions  which  marred  lives  other  than 
his  own.  But  what  were  wife  and  child?  Merely  in- 
cumbrances  then,  and,  toward  the  last,  hardly  to  be  borne. 

And  at  the  beginning?  Why,  the  young  man  had  once 
been  respectable,  and  of  the  type  to  be  pointed  out  as  one 
destined  to  make  his  mark.  Starting  at  the  lowest  round 
of  a  big  business  house,  in  a  far-off  city,  it  had  not  taken 
him  long  to  prove  his  rare  mettle,  and  at  twenty-five  he 
had  reached  a  point  further  than  most  men  attain  in  a  life 
time.  He  had  married  a  girl  who  believed  in  him  as  she 
believed  in  God — and  she  had  been  his  dupe  almost  from 
the  first. 

Supremely  selfish,  treacherous  by  nature  and  with  a 
stealthy  leaning  toward  the  fleshpots,  he  began  early  to 
betray  her  trust  in  cold  blood.  She  did  not  know  of  this  ; 
she  knew  only  of  his  indulgence  in  liquor,  increasing 
alarmingly,  and  his  growing  taste  for  cards.  He  had 
drammed  moderately  from  a  very  early  age ;  now  he  had 
a  fiend's  appetite,  while  his  passion  for  the  gaming 
table  grew  accordingly.  She  used  to  plead  pitifully  with 
him  to  eschew  the  practices.  At  first  he  laughed ;  later 
he  sneered.  Meanwhile  his  dissipation  had  not  affected 
his  business  prospects  as  yet.  Often  rioting  through  a 
sleepless  night,  he  was  invariably  at  his  desk  in  the  morn 
ing,  and  his  house  was  glad  to  command  his  services,  for 
he  was  a  veritable  business  genius. 

His  wife,  poor  soul,  hoped  that  the  baby's  coming 
would  influence  him  to  better  things.  It  grew  worse. 
His  appetite  for  liquor,  which  was  evidently  inherited 
from  some  bibulous  ancestor,  grew  tyrannous,  and  he  was 


THE  LASH  207 

a  willing  slave.  Lucky  at  cards,  ordinary  gambling  be 
came  too  tame  for  him.  He  fell  to  speculating,  cannily 
at  first,  but  with  success  and  increasing  indulgence  in 
liquor  came  recklessness.  The  man's  naturally  cool  busi 
ness  judgment  was  clouded,  for  he  was  never  wholly 
sober  now.  Yet  his  business  prospects  were  still  of  the 
best,  for  he  succeeded  marvellously  in  retaining  his  strong 
hold  on  affairs.  The  dawn  was  more  than  likely  to  find 
him  reeling,  but  the  opening  of  the  day's  business  in 
variably  found  him  at  his  desk,  alert,  coldly  inscrutable, 
his  wits  more  than  a  match  for  the  sharpest  ones  that 
might  oppose  him.  Dissipated  as  he  was  in  those  days, 
he  engineered  some  brilliant  coups  which  benefited  his 
concern  and  increased  his  own  prestige,  to  his  material 
advantage.  He  was  already  pointed  out  as  a  man  of 
power.  He  could  have  figured  as  a  Napoleon  of  hon 
orable  business,  as  he  later  figured  as  a  Napoleon  of  graft. 
Of  splendid  intellectual  endowment,  he  chose  to  mar 
himself. 

Their  home-life,  because  of  his  course,  had  grown  un 
speakably  wretched.  They  lived  simply ;  the  bulk  of  the 
man's  income  was  expended  away  from  home.  The  wife 
did  not  reproach  him  and  she  had  ceased  to  plead,  but 
she  was  pale  and  silent  and  sad-eyed.  She  knew  all  now, 
and  she  lived  only  for  her  baby. 

Like  many  an  infinitely  better  man,  the  husband's 
worst  side  was  reserved  for  his  family.  The  inevitable 
reaction  of  tippling,  in  a  nature  like  his,  rendered  him 
fairly  diabolic  at  times  in  his  home ;  and  the  cruel  spirit 
was  the  fiercer  by  reason  of  the  need  for  its  repression 
elsewhere.  He  remembered  one  morning  when  he  stood 
shaving  before  his  mirror,  shaking  from  the  effect  of  a 


THE  LASH 


debauch.  It  was  several  months  after  his  son  was  born. 
His  wife,  in  pitiful  appeal  to  his  better  side,  of  whose 
existence  she  still  dreamed,  had  softly  entered  the  room, 
carrying  the  baby.  She  thoughtlessly  approached  from 
the  side,  and  he  neither  heard  nor  saw  her.  A  soft  little 
hand,  the  baby's,  crept  into  his  neck.  Shaken  as  he  was, 
it  startled  him  ;  his  razor  slipped  and  the  blood  spurted 
from  a  gash  in  his  cheek.  Blind  with  swift,  unreasoning 
rage,  he  whirled  with  a  curse  and  a  murderous,  involun 
tary  swoop  of  his  razor.  She  had  sprung  back  with  a 
sharp  cry,  but  just  too  late.  He  heard  again  the  sudden, 
shrill  cry  of  the  baby  ;  saw  the  swift  blood  rimming  an 
ugly  gash  above  its  little  wrist  ;  saw  himself  shriveling,  be 
fore  the  horror  in  his  wife's  eyes,  into  a  loathsome  thing. 
"My  God!"  he  had  stammered,  "I—  I  didn't  mean—" 
She  had  recoiled,  the  flame  in  her  eyes  repelling  him. 
Ever  afterward  her  burning  eyes,  accusing  him  in  mem 
ory,  had  caused  his  own  to  close  spasmodically  in  swift 
desire  to  escape  her  gaze  ;  had  caused  him  to  dig  his  nails 
into  his  palms  in  temporary  agonized  abasement.  The 
grim  mills  of  the  gods,  indeed  ! 

The  poor  woman  annoyed  him  no  more  after  that,  but 
she  grew  like  a  voiceless,  accusing  ghost.  She  was  thin 
and  pale  now  and  her  beauty  was  fading  pathetically.  As 
for  him,  his  course  grew  madder,  he  plunged  into  dissipa 
tion  as  it  had  been  an  enveloping  sea.  By  and  by  things 
began  to  go  wrong  with  him  ;  wild  speculations  turned 
out  poorly,  his  resources  began  seriously  to  dwindle. 
With  his  old,  clear  head  he  could  have  repaired  his  for 
tunes,  but  now  he  saw  things  through  a  red  haze,  and 
in  endeavoring  to  right  himself  with  one  reckless  stroke, 
he  lost  everything. 


THE  LASH  209 

Well,  it  was  time  to  leave.  But  he  would  not  go  alone, 
he  sullenly  decided.  There  was  a  siren  to  whom  he  had 
long  been  devoted,  a  creature  of  sensuous  mould  designed 
to  hold  enmeshed  such  evil  souls  as  his.  Nor,  he  fiercely 
told  himself,  would  they  go  empty-handed.  And  he  for 
tified  his  nerve  with  more  whisky. 

The  newspapers  accordingly  had  a  sensation.  One  of 
the  city's  most  brilliant  and  most  trusted  young  business 
men  was  a  defaulter  to  the  extent  of  thousands  of  dollars, 
and  he  was  gone.  This  startling  fact,  coupled  with  the 
simultaneous  departure  of  the  siren  and  the  revelations  of 
the  defaulter's  double  life,  made  an  attractive  tit-bit.  The 
wife  and  child,  being  of  minor  importance  in  this  sensa 
tional  tale,  were  quickly  forgotten.  The  memory  of  the 
defaulter  remained,  and  men  confidently  believed  at  first 
that  one  day  they  would  welcome  his  return,  shackled  to 
an  officer  of  the  law.  But  it  was  not  to  be,  though  once 
the  man,  driven  by  the  lash  of  belated  remorse,  had  ven 
tured  to  cross  a  continent  and  steal  furtively  into  the  scene 
of  his  early  crime,  on  a  bootless  quest. 

It  seemed  to  him  later  that,  following  his  flight  with  his 
siren,  he  had  been  drunk  for  years.  The  furtive  sting 
was  at  work ;  he  drank  to  deaden  it.  At  times  he  would 
shiver  and  the  cold  perspiration  would  bead  his  forehead, 
for  he  saw  again  the  horror  in  her  eyes  as  she  sought  to 
stanch  the  blood  that  flowed  from  her  baby's  arm.  More, 
he  saw  himself  again,  with  hideous  humor,  repeatedly 
when  he  was  in  his  cups,  tearing  her  baby  from  her  arms 
and  plying  it  with  toddy.  The  boy  would  take  it  like 
milk,  he  remembered ;  and  the  father  was  wont  to  laugh, 
with  all  the  sardonic  mirth  of  a  hyena,  at  the  anguish  in 
the  mother's  eyes,  and  finally  to  hand  back  the  infant  with 


210  THE  LASH 

ironical  courtesy  and  the  observation  "that  he  was  a  chip 
of  the  old  block." 

Yes,  pleasant  memories  had  the  fugitive,  while  drifting 
from  place  to  place  with  his  paramour.  The  money  was 
soon  gone  and  he  had  recourse  to  the  gaming  table,  with 
fluctuating  luck.  Quarrels  were  frequent  now,  and 
finally,  after  an  exceptionally  fierce  one,  in  which  two 
calloused,  coarsened  natures  revealed  themselves  in  all 
their  hideousness,  the  precious  pair  parted.  That  par 
ticular  weakness  disturbed  the  current  of  the  man's  life  no 
more,  for  Shaughnessy  was  done  with  sirens  and  their 
influence.  With  a  revival  of  his  old  calculation,  shrewd 
and  cold,  he  decided  that  it  didn't  pay. 

At  the  same  time,  too,  he  decided  that  whisky  didn't 
pay.  He  had  a  will  like  iron,  whether  toward  evil  or 
against  it.  Returning  reason  bade  him  to  be  against  any 
thing  that  marred  his  self-interest,  so  Shaughnessy — 
which  name  he  adopted  after  his  flight  of  years  before — 
said  one  day,  "I'm  done,"  and  suffered  ensuing  torments 
of  thirst  like  an  imperturbable  Indian.  It  was  years  be 
fore  he  again  tasted  liquor,  though  he  never  lost  the  crav 
ing  for  it;  and  even  then,  he  severely  confined  himself  to 
its  use  as  a  medicine,  necessitated  by  his  failing  health. 

After  the  siren  had  gone  her  way,  and  Shaughnessy 
took  occasion  to  survey  the  situation  with  something  of 
his  old-time  critical  analysis,  he  resolved  upon  his  future 
campaign.  His  honest  name  he  had  forfeited  ;  it  could  not 
be  resumed.  Moreover,  his  natural  cynicism  had  deep 
ened  with  the  years.  It  was  the  dishonest  who  prospered 
most,  thought  he.  He  had  the  brains,  so  let  him  scheme 
to  prosper.  Politics  attracted  him.  He  studied  it  for 
the  science  that  it  is,  and  he  also  studied  men.  He  chosq 


THE  LASH  211 

an  excellent  field  in  which  to  operate ;  he  established  his 
small  liquor  store,  which  was  destined  to  grow  larger ;  he 
made  his  modest  entry  into  the  political  arena  which  he 
was  to  dominate.  With  infinite  subtlety,  by  the  power 
of  a  remarkable  brain,  he  had  grown  into  the  sinister 
force  he  was  today ;  nor  did  his  evil  success  trouble  him. 
It  was  the  memory  of  his  wife  and  child  that  haunted  him  ; 
a  memory  that  bit  deep  as  a  sword. 

It  was  years  before  he  risked  detection  by  a  visit  to  his 
old  city  to  ascertain  regarding  them,  for  of  course  he 
dared  not  write.  Time  was  generous  and  changed  him 
much,  however,  in  appearance,  so  finally  he  traversed  the 
continent  and  furtively,  fearfully,  entered  his  old  haunts. 
He  did  not  stay  long ;  there  was  no  need.  His  wife  was 
dead ;  he  found  her  humble  grave  in  an  old  cemetery. 
The  boy  had  been  entirely  lost  sight  of;  he  had  drifted 
away  and  might  be  dead  for  all  that  anybody  knew  or 
apparently  cared.  We  poor  worldlings  might  perchance 
be  more  sympathetic,  more  solicitous  one  of  the  other,  if 
we  had  more  time.  But  self-interest  in  the  grim  old 
world  demands  and  receives  the  initial  consideration  of 
self.  Shaughnessy  turned  back  with  a  heart  none  the 
lighter  because  of  the  fruitlessness  of  his  quest ;  back  to 
the  old  search  in  dark  places  for  pelf  and  power.  There 
was  nothing  else  left,  and,  as  his  ideals  had  never  been 
high,  his  course  suited  him  and  satisfied  his  ambition. 

The  boss  rose,  swaying,  from  his  chair ;  a  strange 
weakness  was  upon  him.  He  made  his  way  toward  the 
spot  where  his  unconscious  son  lay  prone  on  the  floor,  and 
he  tottered  like  an  old  man.  He  stood  looking  down  upon 
the  boy,  and  for  his  most  monstrous  sin  of  all  there  was 
grim  reprisal  visible  in  his  eyes.  The  boy  was  as  he  had 


212  THE  LASH 

made  him — as  he  himself  had  been — a  drunkard.  Of 
brilliant  mental  endowment,  as  the  father  knew  to  his  cost, 
the  son's  career  was  clouded  by  this  bitter  heritage  ;  would 
be  clouded  to  the  end,  for  he  lacked  his  father's  iron  will. 
And  the  agency  through  which  the  boss'  black  course  had 
been  menaced ;  that  menaced  it  still ;  the  son  against  the 
sire,  unknowing  and  till  now  unknown !  What  a  hell- 
born  irony  it  was,  matter  for  mirth  of  gibbering  fiends. 
Truly,  at  last  Shaughnessy  drank  the  bitter  lees. 

He  stood  there,  swaying  slightly,  his  gaunt  face  blood 
less,  his  eyes  horrible.  Mechanically  he  pulled  out  his 
watch,  starting  violently.  Why,  it  could  be  no  more  than 
five  minutes  since  the  struggle.  Five  minutes — and  in 
them  Shaughnessy  had  lived  long  and  bitter  years !  And 
now — 

"For  God's  sake!    For — God's — sake!" 

The  old,  old  prayer  of  agony,  of  deadly  fear,  wrung  at 
the  last  from  lips  which  perhaps  had  long  ceased  to  frame 
that  Awful  Name  except  in  blasphemy ;  the  cry  of  the 
ages;  the  wail  of  the  wicked  as  it  is  the  hope  of  the 
blessed ;  the  cry  of  despair  which  rends  the  throat  of  the 
pariah  when  face  to  face  with  Death. 

What  was  it?  Ah!  Shaughnessy  knew ;  while  his  face 
went  gray,  while  he  gasped  for  breath,  while  his  hands 
sought  and  pressed  convulsively  his  breast,  through 
which  throbbed  swift,  keen  stabs  of  exquisite  pain.  The 
mists  swam  before  his  staring  eyes  as  he  reeled  blindly, 
now  with  outstretched  hands,  toward  the  door  of  his  den. 
It  was  the  ancient  enemy  returned — and  this  time  not  to 
be  denied. 

Shaughnessy  lurched  through  the  door,  and  with  grop 
ing  hands,  grasped  the  bottle.  The  fiery  draught  of 


THE  LASH  213 

brandy  seared  his  throat ;  he  strangled  and  the  bottle  fell 
from  his  nerveless  ringers  and  broke  upon  the  floor.  The 
strong  smell  of  the  spilled  contents  oppressed  the  heated 
air. 

No  use — no  use!  Shaughnessy  collapsed  in  the  chair 
before  his  desk,  his  breast  afire  with  suffocating  pain. 
The  gray  pallor  deepened ;  the  eyes  glazed.  For  a  mo 
ment  he  lay  inert,  his  form  twitching.  Then  a  sudden 
torturing  thought  brought  him  instinctively  erect  in  his 
chair.  It  was  like  a  dead  man  rising  from  his  grave. 

The  money — the  property!  Why,  who  would  get  it? 
How  had  he  gotten  it?  Never  mind,  it  was  his;  they 
could  not  take  it  away.  It  should  be  his  son's — who  had 
tried  to  destroy  him.  Would  he  take  it?  Perhaps  not, 
he  might  be  that  kind  of  a  fool.  Well,  if  not,  why  he 
could  give  it  to  charity.  Charity !  Shaughnessy  laughed 
horribly,  deep  in  his  throat. 

There  might — there  might  yet  be  time.  He  made  as  if 
to  brush  away  the  mists  that  deepened  before  his  eyes. 
He  groped  for  paper — a  pen,  and  drew  them  toward  him. 
He  plunged  the  pen  into  the  ink  well,  overturning  it,  but 
he  did  not  heed.  He  was  going  blind ;  there  was  a 

strange,  rhythmic  thudding  in  his  ears, 
"j " 

The  single  letter,  grotesquely  lonely,  sprawled  crazily, 
black  and  ugly,  upon  the  sheet.  The  world  would  re 
member  Shaughnessy  as — Shaughnessy. 

******** 

O'Byrn  stirred  uneasily,  for  the  noise  of  resounding 
blows  was  in  his  ears.  He  struggled  to  a  sitting  posture, 
and  as  he  did  so  the  door  crashed  in.  Dick  and  Slade 
bounded  into  the  room. 


2i4  THE   LASH 

"Ah  !  there  you  are,"  exclaimed  Glenwood,  striding  over 
to  Micky  and  pulling  him  to  his  feet.  "There's  been 
a  rough-house.  But  where's  Shaughncssy  ?"  His  eyes 
swept  the  apartment  vengefully. 

"Must  have  gone  out,"  returned  Slade.  Neither  he  nor 
Dick  noticed  the  partially  open  door  of  the  den.  "Bet 
ter  be  gettin'  out.  He  may  be  back,  with  more  like  him, 
and  we  ain't  got  no  time  to  lose." 

Between  them  they  guided  the  stupefied  O'Byrn  out 
side  and  to  the  waiting  carriage.  Inside  the  den,  crumpled 
horridly  in  his  chair,  with  gaunt,  ghastly  jaw  agape  and 
with  a  look  of  terror  frozen  in  his  staring  eyes,  rested 
Shaughnessy ;  as  he  would  sit  through  the  night,  as  he 
would  be  sitting  when  they  should  seek  him  on  the 
morrow. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE    STORY 

A  HALF-HOUR  later  a  telephone  bell  pealed  in 
the  office  of  the  Courier.  "You're  wanted,  Mr. 
Harkins,"  called  an  assistant.  The  city  editor 
hurried  to  the  instrument.  "Hello!"  he  called. 

"Hello!  That  you,  Harkins?  All  right,  this  is  Glen- 
wood.  Well,  we've  got  him.  Working  on  him  now. 
Be  there  by  twelve,  sooner  if  possible.  Have  everything 
ready.  Good-by." 

The  office  of  Dr.  Erastus  Wentworth  was  a  scene  of 
animation.  By  rare  good  luck,  Slade  had  found  the 
medical  gentleman  in  an  adjacent  restaurant  immediately 
after  the  cab  drew  up  at  the  building  which  contained  his 
office.  Dick  and  Slade  had  assisted  the  dazed  O'Byrn 
upstairs,  when  Slade,  fuming  with  impatience,  set  out  on 
a  search  for  the  physician,  which  was  fortunately  soon 
rewarded. 

They  placed  O'Byrn  on  a  sofa  and  he  immediately 
lapsed  into  dreamland.  "Doctor,"  said  Dick,  "this  man 
has  a  job  to  turn  out  tonight  that  would  feaze  many  a 
fellow  in  his  sober  senses.  He's  simply  got  to  do  it  to 
night.  It  will  take  an  hour,  perhaps  a  half  or  so  more. 
It  must  be  started  at  midnight.  I  know  it  looks  hopeless, 
but  you  don't  know  the  man.  If  you  only  start  his 
brain  half-working  it's  worth  a  couple  of  normal  ones 


216  THE  LASH 

under  full  head.  What  do  you  think?"  He  was  pacing 
the  floor  in  keen  excitement.  Slade  stood  near,  silent, 
with  burning  eyes. 

"Bad!"  commented  the  doctor,  dryly.  "How  much 
has  he  had?" 

"Not  so  much,"  returned  Slade.  "He  got  a  nasty 
bump ;  it  helped." 

"Well,  we'll  try,"  said  the  doctor,  and  was  soon  busy. 
Micky  was  sufficiently  oblivious  not  to  wince  at  the  sting 
of  the  hypodermic  needle,  piercing  his  bared  arm,  forcing 
into  his  system  the  powerful  solution  of  strychinine,  the 
influence  of  which  must  be  invoked  to  reinforce  the 
mechanism  of  the  numbed  brain.  Dick  looked  at  the 
Irishman,  sprawled  supine  upon  the  office  sofa,  still  with 
closed  eyes.  It  looked  hopeless  enough  and  Dick  de 
spaired. 

A  little  later  the  physician  was  preparing  with  infinite 
care  a  mixture  which  he  finally  seemed  to  have  ready  to 
his  satisfaction.  He  approached  the  prostrate  man. 

"Rank  poison,"  he  said  grimly  to  Glenwood,  "but  des 
perate  cases  require  desperate  remedies.  I  fancy  this 
will  complete  the  job  of  galvanizing  your  friend  for  the 
time  you  require.  Probably  he  won't  exactly  scintillate, 
but  I  think  he  will  do."  He  administered  the  stuff  to 
O'Byrn,  who,  half-conscious  already  despite  his  relaxed 
attitude,  swallowed  it  obediently. 

"Now  in  a  few  minutes,"  said  the  doctor,  "you  can 
start  with  him.  But  remember  one  thing,"  he  cautioned 
Glenwood,  "this  brace  is  wholly  artificial.  It  won't  last. 
A  little  later  and  I  couldn't  have  done  much  for  you  any 
way.  He'll  run  along  like  a  machine  for  a  while,  that's 


THE  STORY  217 

all.  Get  all  you  can  from  him  while  you  can,  for  there'll 
be  a  reaction." 

"That's  what  we've  got  to  do  anyway,"  replied  Dick 
grimly.  "It's  a  case  of  racing  the  clock  with  us  from  now 
on."  ' 

A  little  later  they  descended  the  stairs,  O'Byrn  stum 
bling  heedlessly  down,  assisted  by  Glenwood.  The  cabman 
had  waited  under  instructions.  "The  Courier  office  in  a 
hurry,"  Dick  ordered,  and  assisted  Micky  inside.  Slade 
followed.  He  had  resolved  to  be  in  at  the  death. 

As  the  cab  rolled  rapidly  south,  Dick  spoke  to  the  man 
opposite  him,  now  rousing  to  a  dull  consciousness  of  his 
surroundings. 

"Micky,"  he  demanded,  "have  you  got  that  story,  all 
of  it?"  There  was  an  assenting  nod. 

"Now  listen  to  me,  Micky,"  continued  Dick,  leaning 
forward  in  the  dimness,  fixing  the  other's  stolid  eyes 
with  his  own  dominant  ones,  "you're  going  to  turn  out 
that  story  and  it's  going  to  be  the  story  of  your  life.  You 
won't  feel  like  it,  but  you're  going  to  do  it  and  it's  going 
to  be  a  dandy.  Now  get  your  brain  working.  Think  of 
that  story,  every  stage  of  it,  from  the  time  you  first 
started  out  for  it  till  you  finished.  Fix  it  in  your  head, 
and  when  the  time  comes,  just  spout  it.  Don't-think-of- 
anything-bnt-that-story!  Do  you  understand?" 

There  was  but  a  single  word  of  response,  a  little  thick, 
but  inspiring  of  confidence.  "Sure." 

Dick  sat  back  with  a  long  sigh.  His  hands  were 
trembling  with  excitement.  A  moment  later  the  cab  drew 
up  in  front  of  the  Courier  office. 

The  elevator  sprang  upward.  As  its  door  was  flung 
back  for  the  trio  to  emerge,  the  big  editorial  clock  chimed 


2i8  THE  LASH 

the  hour  of  midnight.  Harkins  met  them  with  white 
face  and  eyes  that  revealed  the  strain  of  the  long  hours  of 
suspense.  Behind  him  stared  many  other  eyes,  in  which 
shone  an  overwrought  glitter  that  came  of  the  infectious 
tension  of  the  situation. 

"Well,  O'Byrn !"  Harkins'  voice  crackled  with  acrid 
authority.  "Where's  your  story?" 

The  tone  had  the  effect  of  a  whip  lash,  awakening  the 
habit  of  swift  obedience  born  of  long  training.  Micky 
had  stood  dumb  with  blank  eyes,  to  which  the  scene  and 
the  actors  seemed  strangely  remote,  like  a  vague  dream. 
But  his  chief's  question  pierced  his  numbed  brain  like 
sharp  steel.  There  was  an  instinctive  attempt  to  gather 
his  deadened  forces.  His  hand  swiftly  sought  an  outer 
pocket  and  produced  a  few  penciled  fragments  which  he 
threw  upon  a  table.  "There,"  he  said. 

"These !"  exclaimed  Harkins,  hastily  scanning  them. 
"Well,  where  are  the  rest?  Did  you  lose  them?" 

Dick  interposed.  "You  forget,  Mr.  Harkins,"  he  sug 
gested.  "He  doesn't  have  to  carry  a  notebook.  Micky, 
where's  the  rest  of  it?" 

"Why,"  he  answered  confusedly,  "I  remembered  it." 

"Well,  do  you  remember  it  now?"  persisted  Harkins. 

"No,"  wearily,  "not  just  now."  Then,  again  with  that 
strange  gathering  of  struggling  forces,  though  the  words 
came  as  if  he  talked  in  his  sleep,  "I'll  remember  it — after 
I  get  started."  And  he  walked  straight  to  his  desk,  eyes 
dead  ahead  like  a  somnambulist's,  unheedful  of  the  men 
who  watched  him  silently  with  drawn,  anxious  faces.  It 
is  doubtful  if  he  saw  them.  Dropping  limply  into  his 
chair  he  reached  mechanically  for  his  copy  paper. 

"Not  that  way,  Micky,"  said  Dick  softly,  interposing 


THE  STORY  219 

his  hand.  "There  isn't  time.  You  must  dictate  it. 
Here's  a  man  waiting  for  you." 

Micky  turned  dull  eyes  toward  the  stenographer  who 
sat  nearby  in  readiness,  pencil  in  hand.  An  expression  of 
helplessness  replaced  the  apathy  in  O'Byrn's  face,  as  his 
gaze  shifted  to  Dick.  In  his  trance-like  state  he  could 
not  comprehend.  They  wanted  the  story,  yet  would  not 
let  him  write  it.  There  was  a  pathetic  questioning  in  his 
look. 

"Listen,  Micky,"  said  Dick  very  distinctly,  bending  over 
him.  "It's  not  far  from  press-time.  We've  got  to  hurry. 
There's  a  relay  of  stenographers  waiting  for  you.  Now 
you  go  ahead  and  dictate  your  story  just  as  if  you  were 
writing  it  yourself.  Get  your  mind  right  on  it.  Talk 
your  introduction,  covering  the  main  points,  then  start  at 
the  beginning  and  go  through  to  the  finish.  Get  every 
thing  in  and  talk  it  as  it  comes  to  you,  but  have  it  right. 
Don't  be  afraid  of  going  too  fast.  They'll  get  it  all. 
Talk  it  just  as  you'd  talk  it  to  me  and  get  it  all.  You 
understand?  Now,  boy,  get  into  it!"  He  placed  the 
packet  of  Shaughnessy's  papers,  which  O'Byrn  had  en 
trusted  to  him,  in  his  hand. 

Dick  stepped  back,  raising  his  hand  to  quiet  them  all 
as  they  crowded  around,  staring  at  the  motionless  man  in 
the  chair.  "Get  back !"  Dick  whispered  fiercely.  "Get 
him  rattled  now  and  it's  all  up.  Can't  you  see?"  They 
softly  moved  aside  and  intense  quiet  fell,  in  which  the 
measured  ticking  of  the  big  clock  sounded  unbelievably 
loud.  They  watched  the  meagre  figure  in  the  chair  with 
an  odd  fascination.  O'Byrn,  as  if  fairly  hypnotized  by 
Glenwood's  words,  was  bending  forward,  hands  pressed 
tightly  against  his  temples,  eyes  closed  and  brow  con- 


220  THE  LASH 

tracted  in  the  supreme  effort  to  marshal  the  dormant 
resources  of  his  brain.  So  he  sat,  without  word  or  mo 
tion,  while  the  moments  crawled  by  and  the  suspense  grew 
into  actual  pain  for  every  watcher  in  that  great  room. 
Once  Harkins,  with  an  expression  of  keen  torture,  slowly 
lifted  a  clenched  hand  and  let  it  fall  silently,  an  im 
petuous  word  restrained  by  a  warning  gesture  from  Glen- 
wood,  who  had  not  once  taken  his  piercing  eyes  from 
O'Byrn's  face.  Even  as  he  gazed,  the  face  of  the  other 
seemed  curiously  to  change,  as  if  a  dead  thing  were 
stirring  into  life.  It  was  as  if  Glenwood's  iron  will  rein 
forced  O'Byrn's  weaker  one,  infusing  into  it  the  power  of 
concentration,  helping  it  to  rise  superior  to  deadening 
influences,  to  assert  itself  in  a  hard-won  triumph  of  mind 
over  matter. 

At  last  Micky  raised  his  head,  looking  straight  into 
Dick's  eyes,  which  shone  with  satisfaction,  for  they  read 
coherence  in  O'Byrn's  own.  The  day  was  saved  and 
there  was  a  universal  sigh  of  relief.  O'Byrn  extended  his 
hand.  Reading  the  gesture  aright,  Dick  placed  in  it  the 
notes  which  shortly  before  had  been  produced  for 
Harkins'  inspection.  Micky  looked  them  over  briefly, 
scanned  the  damning  packet  a  moment,  and  turned  to  the 
waiting  stenographer. 

Then  came  the  story  which  swept  the  town  that  morn 
ing  in  a  mighty  wind  that  drove  a  monstrous  tidal  wave 
of  public  indignation  thundering  over  an  illicit  crew  and 
blotted  out  a  corrupt  municipal  history.  Yes  and  more, 
for  the  waters  encroached  even  to  foul  halls  in  the  capitol 
and  washed  them  clean.  It  was  a  story  involving  so 
scathing  an  arraignment  of  those  in  high  places  that  hard 
ened  veterans  in  the  great  room,  listening  to  its  steady 


THE  STORY  221 

flow  from  the  lips  of  the  drowsy  man  in  the  chair, 
gasped  and  looked  at  each  other  in  momentary  incredulity  ; 
momentary,  because  every  astounding  disclosure  was  for 
tified  by  the  most  incontrovertible  of  proofs.  Micky  had 
been  a  veritable  sleuth  hound  on  the  track  of  that  story. 
His  scent  had  been  unerring  and  in  the  marshaling  of  his 
verified  facts  he  had  shown  positive  genius.  There  was 
nothing  asserted  that  collected  statements  and  figures  did 
not  prove  ;  no  man  arraigned,  from  Judge  Boynton  down, 
who  was  not  pilloried  in  the  proof.  Noisome  legislative 
deals,  heretofore  blanketed  by  respectability,  were  laid 
bare  in  exposed  horror.  The  city  government  was  sav 
agely  assailed.  The  vesture  of  fair  seeming  in  the  pres 
ent  campaign  was  torn  away  and  there  was  revealed 
rottenness.  The  growth  of  graft,  in  repulsive  forms, 
under  the  sinister  genius  of  Shaughnessy,  was  claimed  and 
proved  and  the  telling  ruined  some  flourishing  careers. 
So  on  to  the  end,  the  arraignment  transcending  the  ex 
pectation  of  all  in  its  ugly  features,  as  indeed  it  had 
Micky's  own.  It  left  no  doubt  of  the  swift  dynamic  effect 
upon  the  election,  now  close  at  hand.  Truly  it  was  the 
story  of  a  lifetime. 

He  told  it  from  beginning  to  end  always  in  that  strange, 
monotonous  voice,  as  if  he  were  muttering  in  his  sleep, 
his  eyes  at  times  fixed  absently  on  the  stenographer,  at 
others  half-closed  or  turning  blankly  toward  the  ceiling. 
He  seemed  wholly  unconscious  of  his  surroundings  after 
his  task  was  begun,  being  absorbed  in  dreamy  contempla 
tion  of  his  theme.  As  the  physician  had  said,  his  brain 
was  working  like  an  insensate  machine,  driven  for  a  while 
by  the  force  of  powerful  stimulants.  Yet  always  his 
wonderful  memory,  an  instinctive  force  with  him,  was  a 


222  THE  LASH 

potent  line  that  led  his  groping  mind  unerringly  through 
the  gloomy  labyrinth  of  the  brain.  At  times  he  would 
falter  for  a  moment,  but  once  more  grasping  the  thread 
was  off  again.  So,  unmindful  of  anything  save  the  task 
he  was  mechanically  pursuing,  he  swept  on  toward  the 
end.  Stenographers  quietly  relieved  one  another,  type 
writers  rattled  madly  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  Har- 
kins  and  an  assistant  fairly  flew  in  the  preparation  of  the 
copy;  boys  hurried  by  with  it,  take  by  take,  everywhere 
was  the  sharp  hum  of  the  belated  machinery,  at  last  in 
motion.  O'Byrn  never  noticed,  but  went  serenely, 
logically,  sleepily  on,  dictating  as  he  would  have  written 
it.  One  might  imagine  he  saw  himself,  as  one  detached, 
writing  as  he  proceeded. 

But  now  the  fuel  had  spent  its  force.  He  was  grow 
ing  horribly  drowsy,  yet  struggled  on,  impelled  by  a 
latent  sense  of  duty.  At  last  he  faltered  in  the  middle 
of  a  sentence  and  stopped  short.  His  chin  sank  on  his 
breast. 

Someone  was  shaking  him,  he  numbly  felt  a  dash  of 
something  cold  and  wet  in  his  face  and  opened  his  eyes. 
He  tried  to  wipe  away  the  water  that  trickled  down  his 
cheeks,  when  somebody's  handkerchief  was  passed  over 
them  and  he  heard  a  voice,  familiar  yet  far  away. 

"Wake  up,  Micky!"  it  appealed.  "You  can't  give  up 
now,  you're  almost  through !" 

"All  right,  Dick,"  he  sighed  wearily.     "Where  was  I  ?" 

Dick  prompted  him  and  he  resumed  at  the  break,  still 
in  the  same  even,  expressionless  monotone,  and  continued 
until  the  dark  shadows  again  gathered  before  his  eyes 
and  he  swayed  in  his  chair.  Dick's  voice  again  rang  its 
sharp  rally  in  his  ears  and  he  braced  desperately,  dictat- 


THE  STORY  223 

ing  the  closing  paragraphs.  "That's  all,"  he  murmured. 
The  receding  footfalls  of  the  stenographer  sounded.  Then 
came  Dick's  voice,  a  ghost  of  a  voice  from  the  other  side 
of  the  world. 

"Now  you  can  sleep,"  it  said. 

Then  returned  again  the  shadows  and  silence. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

WANDERLUST 

O'BYRN  reeled  to  and  fro,  in  fierce  combat  with 
Shaughnessy.  Again  and  again,  while  his  breath 
came  in  gasps  and  his  temples  throbbed  with 
his  efforts,  he  had  nearly  gained  the  advantage, 
but  the  boss  as  often  slipped  from  his  hold  with  an  ugly 
sneer,  eluding  him.  And  now  occurred  a  grisly  thing, 
for  before  his  horrified  eyes  his  enemy's  body  suddenly 
lengthened  and  changed  into  a  monstrous,  writhing  ser 
pent,  wriggling  sinuously  toward  him.  He  strove  to 
scream,  but  could  not,  and  the  creature  coiled  itself  in 
triumph  near  him.  Upreared  above  its  horrid  neck  was 
the  swaying  head,  the  ghastly  face  of  Shaughnessy,  who 
leered  with  his  black  serpent's  eyes  and  darted  a  forked 
tongue.  Now  the  creature  crawled  sluggishly  toward 
him — coiled  its  horrid  folds  about  him — and  he  could  not 
move.  The  last  coil  tightened  above  his  neck,  while  he 
gazed  upward,  strangling,  into  dead,  unwinking,  awful 
eyes,  the  eyes  of  Shaughnessy.  Now  he  was  borne  back 
ward  ;  the  creature  was  shattering  his  head  upon  the 
floor.  Thud !— thud  !— thud  ! 

O'Byrn  fairly  shot  out  of  bed,  groaning  as  the  impact 
of  his  feet  upon  the  floor  sent  a  diabolical  thrust  of  pain 
through  his  aching  head.  He  pressed  his  temples  con 
vulsively  and  closed  his  eyes,  blinded  by  the  glare  of 


WANDERLUST  225 

sunlight  through  the  window.  Why,  what  was  that? 
Somebody  was  pounding  insistently  at  his  door.  It  was 
this  which  had  awakened  him. 

"What  is  it?"  he  called. 

His  landlady  answered  him.  "There's  a  telegram  for 
you,  Mr.  O'Byrn.  A  young  fellow  just  brought  it  in 
from  the  Courier  office.  He  said  they'd  sent  him  right 
over  here  with  it." 

"Thanks,"  he  mumbled  indifferently.  "Just  shove  it 
under  the  door,  will  you  ?" 

A  small  yellow  envelope  was  thrust  beneath  the  por 
tal,  the  woman's  footsteps  receded  down  the  stairs.  In 
side  his  room  stood  O'Byrn  with  his  splitting  head  be 
tween  shaking  hands,  his  bloodshot  eyes  closing  in  sheer 
physical  misery.  The  meagre  form  in  the  flamboyant 
pajamas  winced  perceptibly  as  stabs  of  cruel  pain  con 
tinued  to  pierce  Micky's  temples.  The  freckled  face 
went  gray  as  the  overwrought  stomach  writhed  in  sick 
ening  nausea. 

It  was  with  a  long,  shuddering  sigh  that  he  turned  at 
last  to  his  ablutions.  He  dressed  mechanically,  his  mem 
ory  groping  through  the  mists  of  the  preceding  night, 
mists  that  reeked  with  misery,  with  shameful  groveling, 
with  manhood  profaned. 

Ah,  God!  he  had  fallen  again,  again!  Numbly  he 
glanced  at  the  mirror.  The  glass  reflected  heavy,  un 
natural  eyes  in  which  despair  brooded  like  a  cloud,  a 
haggard  face  from  which  the  freckles  stared  strangely 
forth  from  unaccustomed  pallor.  Slowly,  painfully,  his 
mind  wrestled  with  the  problem  of  the  night  before,  a 
night  unreal,  peopled  with  phantoms  that  gibbered  and 
peered  from  enshrouding  blackness. 


226  THE  LASH 

Dominated  by  another's  master  will,  had  he  indeed 
emerged  through  shadows  to  victory,  or  was  the  episode 
in  the  Courier  office  merely  a  grateful,  fleeting  dream  to 
accentuate  the  misery  of  waking?  O'Byrn  looked  at  his 
watch,  it  marked  the  hour  of  two.  He  had  slept  long,  it 
seemed.  How  had  he  reached  home,  had  he  been  in  the 
Courier  office  at  all  the  previous  night? 

However,  what  mattered  it?  What  mattered  anything 
in  the  shadow  of  this  appalling  thing  which  mastered 
him,  which  dogged  him  in  times  of  fancied  security,  only 
to  spring  upon  him  unaware  and  rend  him,  leaving  him 
sorely  wounded  again  to  painfully  traverse  for  a  season 
the  path  of  duty  ?  What  mattered  anything  to  one  whose 
stumbling  steps  laid  hold  on  hell? 

Seizing  hat  and  coat  O'Byrn  started  for  the  door.  His 
downcast  gaze  fell  upon  the  yellow  envelope.  Absently 
he  stooped  and  dropped  the  message,  unopened,  into  his 
coat  pocket.  The  landlady  met  him  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs  and  inquired  kindly  if  he  would  eat  something.  He 
replied  only  with  a  gesture  of  utter  repugnance.  She 
looked  after  him  as  he  went  out,  shaking  her  head  sadly. 

O'Byrn  stumbled  blindly  out  upon  the  street,  blurred 
eyes  blinking  in  dazzling  sunshine  of  an  ideal  Indian 
summer  afternoon.  The  warm,  fragrant  air  was  in 
cense  to  the  nostrils,  the  sky  was  of  a  heavenly  blue. 
MScky  closed  miserable  eyes  to  the  glories  of  the  day. 
The  villainous  old  feelings,  so  well  remembered,  racked 
him  cruelly.  The  odd  depression  which  always  followed 
his  indulgence  was  bad  enough,  but  now — 

A  dumb  terror  seized  him.  He  hurried  up  the  quiet 
street  toward  a  busier  thoroughfare,  his  ears  strained 


WANDERLUST  327 

for  the  cries  of  newsboys,  even  as  the  spirit  within  him 
grew  sick  for  fear  of  disappointment. 

In  another  moment  his  shoulders  squared,  his  red 
head  lifted  with  assurance  in  part  renewed.  For  he  could 
now  see  a  thronged  street ;  from  afar  he  could  fairly 
snuff  the  air  of  unwonted  excitement.  Now  he  beheld 
newsboys  running  here  and  there  with  early  editions  of 
the  evening  papers,  their  wares  disappearing  fast  as 
April  snows.  The  burden  of  their  shrill  cries  was  the 
exposure  of  the  gang,  with  "follow-up"  details  upon 
the  Courier's  story.  O'Byrn  drew  a  long  breath  of 
relief. 

Well,  he  should  now  be  communicating  with  the  office. 
He  looked  longingly  toward  a  saloon.  Throat  and  mouth 
were  parched  dry  as  desert  sands.  Resolutely  turning 
away,  he  entered  a  drug  store  instead,  purchased  a  brom 
ide  and  then  stepped  into  a  telephone  booth. 

Securing  Harkins'  ear  at  the  Courier  office,  he  told 
the  city  editor  that  he  felt  pretty  "shaky,"  and  inquired 
if  he  were  needed  there.  Harkins  replied  that  it  was 
expected  he  would  rest  for  a  couple  of  days  and  added 
some  warm  congratulatory  words.  O'Byrn  thanked  him, 
and  with  a  bitter  smile,  hung  up  the  receiver. 

Stepping  into  a  tobacco  store  he  purchased  some 
cigars,  and  as  he  handed  the  salesman  a  coin  he  remem 
bered  that  he  had  not  drawn  his  salary,  due  the  day  be 
fore.  Walking  to  the  Courier's  business  office  he  se 
cured  his  money,  accepting,  with  an  odd  indifference,  the 
congratulations  of  some  fellow  employes  there  upon  his 
brilliant  coup. 

Next,  although  at  the  moment  he  could  not  have  told 
just  why,  he  stopped  at  the  bank  where,  through  the  in- 


228  THE  LASH 

fluence  of  a  warm  dream  near  his  heart,  he  had  been  of 
late  depositing  a  portion  of  his  wages  each  week,  and 
called  for  his  money.  Placing  the  little  bundle  of  bills 
carefully  in  his  pocket  book,  he  left  the  building  and 
sauntered  slowly  down  the  crowded  street. 

Everything  told  of  a  triumph  which  it  seemed  should 
have  had  the  little  Irishman  walking  upon  air.  Every 
thing  pointed  to  as  impressive  a  climax  as  he  could  have 
wished.  Everywhere  were  knots  of  excited  men,  with 
strident  voices  and  brandished  fists.  The  clubs  and 
hotels  were  teeming  with  the  story,  the  curbs  proclaimed 
it.  Newsboys  were  reaping  harvests  and  the  news  stands 
could  hardly  supply  the  hungry  demand. 

Public  opinion,  at  first  stunned  by  the  sensational  ex 
posure  of  a  system  of  wholesale  corruption  well  nigh 
unbelievable,  was  gathering  force  like  a  mighty,  over 
whelming  wave,  which  was  to  sweep  down  in  vengeance 
upon  the  trembling,  illicit  crew,  now  leaderless.  This, 
however,  was  not  yet  known,  nor  was  it  destined  to  be 
come  so  until  the  evening.  There  would  be  another  rich 
morsel  for  the  Courier  in  the  early  morning,  though  none 
knew  it  now. 

Shaughnessy  had  been  wont  to  live  in  seclusion  that 
was  undisturbed  save  when  he  was  minded  to  summon 
one  or  another  of  his  crew.  His  lodgings  occupied  the 
upper  floor  of  a  small,  two-story  building,  with  unpre 
tentious  stores  below,  and  few  ascended  the  stairs  that 
had  not  business  with  Shaughnessy  and  been  called 
thither.  Also,  the  boss  had  invariably  taken  his  meals 
outside  and  so  managed  in  all  respects  that  once  in  his 
retreat,  when  he  so  willed,  he  was  in  unbroken  seclusion. 

So  it  transpired  that  Shaughnessy,  limp  in  the  chair 


WANDERLUST  229 

before  the  desk  in  his  den,  sat  in  grisly  silence  through 
the  long  night  till  the  dawn  which  heralded  his  exposure ; 
sat  through  the  long  day,  with  the  sun's  rays  beating 
through  the  window  upon  his  glazed,  unwinking  eyes ; 
sat  quietly,  while  men  throughout  the  city  cursed  him  for 
the  masterly  knave  he  had  been,  conferring  together  in 
plans  of  futile  reprisal.  So  he  sat,  deaf,  unheeding,  be 
yond  it  all ;  while  some  men  watched  others  whom  they 
thought  harbored  him  and  others  thought  him  gone. 

And  so  he  was — to  a  far  country,  where  they  could  not 
follow  him.  Even  now,  as  he  sat  waiting  for  them,  there 
was  a  sardonic  look  about  his  grim,  relaxed  jaws  which 
might  tell  them,  when  they  were  finally  come — sum 
moned  through  the  veriest  accident  to  get  him — that  they 
were  welcome  to  what  was  left. 

As  O'Byrn  walked  along  the  crowded  street,  he  passed 
some  members  of  the  gang,  hurrying  by  with  white 
faces  and  furtive  eyes,  cringing  in  the  glare  of  publicity 
as  if  a  lash  bit  deep  into  quivering  flesh.  Others  he  met 
who  affected  an  exaggerated  boldness  which  failed  to 
hide  their  uneasiness.  Some  who  knew  O'Byrn  shot 
glances  at  him  that  were  white-hot  with  hate,  one 
breathed  a  livid  curse  as  they  touched  elbows. 

To  all  the  tumult,  the  strident  clamor  of  indignation, 
the  scurrying  hither  and  yon  of  scared,  branded  rats  of 
men,  O'Byni  remained  curiously  indifferent.  As  during 
his  dictation  of  the  previous  night,  he  proceeded  as  if  in 
a  maze,  with  the  air  of  a  sleep  walker,  gaze  dead  ahead ; 
no  triumph  in  the  eyes,  only  infinite  weariness. 

For  O'Byrn  was  confronted  by  the  merciless  logic  of 
his  fate,  feeling  the  strangling  grip  of  the  enemy  upon 
his  soul.  At  times  like  these  there  was  given  him  cruel 


230  THE  LASH 

realization  at  its  full,  the  grim,  prophetic  knowledge  that 
he  must  fight  a  losing  battle  to  the  end.  Without  know 
ing  the  source,  he  recognized  the  deadly  taint  of  heredity 
in  his  blood.  A  hard  road  was  his  to  travel,  and — 
supremest  sacrifice! — now  he  knew  that  in  simple  justice 
he  must  pursue  it — alone.  And  the  winds  are  bleak  that 
howl  about  a  solitary  way. 

So,  on  this  beautiful  autumn  afternoon,  walking  in 
the  midst  of  a  public  upheaval  which  he  had  produced, 
the  cup  of  success  held  only  bitter  lees.  Face  to  face  with 
inevitable  renunciation  of  his  dearest  hope,  the  present 
moment  held  no  thrill.  There  was  no  rose,  only  the  pallid 
gray;  wan,  cold  ashes  of  endeavor.  Through  this 
damning  thing  he  was  doomed  to  walk  alone  in  arid 
places,  a  soul  cut  off  from  Israel. 

A  voice  hailed  him,  recalling  him  to  pulsing  actualities. 
It  was  that  of  Mead,  his  fellow-worker  upon  the  staff 
of  the  Courier. 

"Hello !"  remarked  Mead,  shaking  O'Byrn's  hand. 
"Great  story !  You've  won  that  bet,  all  right." 

"What  bet?"  returned  Micky,  listlessly. 

''Why,  that  Santa  Claus  bet  about  Shaughnessy,"  re 
joined  the  other,  producing  a  ten  dollar  bill.  "You  know, 
in  the  lunch  room  that  time ;  that  he'd  get  his.  Well, 
you're  a  wizard  and  here  you  are.  It's  a  little  early,  but 
Boynton's  grave  is  waitin'.  Don't  be  bashful.  I've  made 
twice  the  stuff  already  with  outside  specials  on  your 
story.  Thought  I'd  pay  you  right  up,  maybe  you  could 
use  it." 

"Thanks,  Mead,"  replied  Micky,  wearily.  "Why,  yes, 
I  can  use  it." 

"They're  holdin'  a  pow-wow  at  the  office,"  pursued 


WANDERLUST  231 

Mead.  "Harkins,  he's  walkin'  on  air.  Everyone's  specu- 
latin'  on  how  much  they'll  boost  your  pay.  Wish  I'd  get 
half  of  it.  But  I'm  a  dub.  Say,  Glenwood's  out  of  town. 
They  sent  him  off  on  something  growin'  out  of  your 
yarn." 

"Sorry  he's  gone,"  replied  Micky,  moving  on.  "Give 
him  my  regards.  So  long,  Mead." 

"Ain't  he  the  foolish  frost?"  wondered  Mead,  staring 
curiously  after  the  Irishman.  "Doesn't  seem  to  give  a 
damn.  \Vorryin'  over  his  bat,  likely.  Why,  bat  or  no 
bat,  if  I'd  turned  out  that  story,  I'd — but  I  couldn't. 
Switch  off!"  He  shook  his  head  mournfully  as  he  hur 
ried  up  the  street. 

O'Byrn  proceeded  to  the  writing  room  of  a  hotel  where 
he  penned  three  notes,  sealed  and  stamped  the  envelopes, 
and  slipped  them  into  his  pocket.  Returning  to  the 
street  he  walked  to  the  corner,  stared  absently  about  for 
a  moment  and  then  boarded  a  street  car,  harbor  bound. 

A  little  later  he  sat  upon  the  edge  of  the  wharves,  his 
feet  dangling  above  the  restless  surface  of  the  waters. 
The  workaday  bustle  and  confusion,  the  shrill  cries  of 
roustabouts  mingling  with  the  thumping  din  of  man 
handled  freight,  the  clatter  of  trucks,  the  tramp  of  count 
less  feet,  the  shrieks  of  whistles  and  hoarse  growl  of 
gongs;  all  these  were  as  if  they  had  not  been  to  a  mind 
capable  of  such  absorption  that  it  could,  did  occasion  de 
mand,  work  undisturbed  in  the  thunderous  roar  of  a 
rolling  mill. 

So  the  lonely,  meagre  figure  rested  motionless  in  the 
midst  of  unrealized  tumult,  the  sombre  eyes  gazed  past 
the  vessels  thronging  the  waterway  to  some  dim  goal 
far  beyond  the  humming  ken  of  commerce,  straight  into 


232  THE   LASH 

the  realm  of  dreams.  The  ears  drank  in  only  the  mur 
mur  of  lazy  waters  whispering  about  the  piers  in  the 
wash  of  a  falling  tide,  bearing  the  message  of  the  sea. 

The  message  of  the  sea !  Softly  low,  like  the  love  note 
of  a  mother,  it  whispered  to  the  alien  brooding  spirit, 
whispered  of  spindrift  whipped  to  showers  of  briny 
spray  in  the  sweep  of  unleashed  winds,  whispered  of 
illimitable,  splendid  unrest.  Out  beyond  the  land-locked 
haven  of  the  ships  the  great  waves  rolled  league  on 
league,  in  unfettered  freedom,  to  annoint  the  feet  of  a 
far  world. 

Low  in  the  west,  the  sun  crimsoned  the  distant  sky 
line  and  tinged  with  rose  the  gray  of  wan,  far-flung  bil 
lows.  The  balm  of  a  soft  breeze,  instinct  with  the  latent 
fragrance  of  the  passing  year,  breathed  over  the  tossing 
waters  of  the  harbor,  lately  rent  by  a  strong  wind,  and 
lulled  them  to  cradled  peace.  High  overhead  a  flock  of 
gulls  wheeled  with  harsh  cries,  winging  straight  out  to 
the  sky  line  of  gray  and  rose  that  hemmed  the  sweep 
of  the  restless  sea. 

Mechanically  the  man  on  the  wharf  rose  to  his  feet, 
standing  with  hands  in  his  coat  pockets,  watching  the 
soaring  gulls.  Like  the  wind  they  flew,  straight  out  to 
the  rose  and  gray  and  beyond,  white  specks  swallowed  in 
the  mists  of  distance.  Even  yet  the  eyes  of  the  man's 
mind  followed  them,  atoms  that  swooped  triumphantly 
into  the  teeth  of  stinging  winds;  atoms  fiercely  clamor 
ous,  mad  with  the  mere  ecstasy  of  life,  with  wild, 
aimless  wandering,  the  zest  of  battle  with  wind  and 
wave. 

O'Byrn  drew  a  long,  shuddering  breath.  It  had 
gripped  him  again,  this  compelling  ghost  that  could  never 


WANDERLUST  233 

be  laid  for  long.  In  his  eyes  blazed  the  old,  restless  light, 
the  wild  will-o'-the-wisp  which  lures  the  born  wanderer 
the  wide  world  over  in  erratic  flight  till  set  o'  sun.  His 
tired  brain,  his  sick  heart,  alike  craved  the  old  nepenthe 
of  unrest. 

Reborn  of  the  whispered  message  of  wide-flung  tides, 
the  sight  of  the  screaming  gulls,  the  old  longing  of  his 
nature  sought  vent  in  a  strident  inward  cry.  Once  more, 
bringing  the  sharp,  exquisite  pain  he  feared,  yet  loved, 
the  lash  came  hurtling  out  of  the  unknown,  driving  him 
on  to  new  scenes  that  all  too  soon  were  old,  to  dream 
houses  built  on  crumbling  sands.  The  strange  light  of 
his  eyes  grew  brighter,  the  wine  of  quickened  wander 
lust  mounted  in  deepening  glow  upward  to  heart  and 
brain. 

O'Byrn  became  conscious  of  a  small,  square  object  in 
his  pocket.  Absently  he  drew  forth  a  yellow  envelope. 
Tearing  it  open  he  read  the  message.  With  eyes  dark 
ened  with  concentration  he  read  it  again.  A  little  later 
he  walked  into  a  telegraph  office. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  LONG  ROAD 

NIGHT  had  fallen,  the  lights  of  the  city  flared 
under  a  calm  clear  sky  that  was  studded  with 
stars.  A  soft  wind  from  the  south  had 
worked  its  will,  the  night  was  warmer  than 
had  been  the  day.  The  air  was  fragrant  with  the  mystic 
scent  of  Indian  summer,  of  green  things  in  fields  and 
forests,  the  land  over,  that  were  changing  to  rose  and 
gold  ere  the  pitiful  withering  to  shriveled  gray. 

Through  a  quiet  street  leading  toward  Mulberry  Ave 
nue  walked  a  man,  haggard  of  face,  misty  of  eye.  He 
was  a  small  man,  almost  a  youth,  of  meagre  frame  and 
rather  pronounced  garb.  He  carried  a  rusty  satchel, 
grimy  and  battered,  like  the  scarred  veteran  of  a  long 
and  strenuous  campaign. 

Now  he  was  passing  a  dusky  corner ;  one  he  had  good 
cause  to  remember,  but  his  thoughts  were  far  away.  So 
he  failed  to  associate  the  low,  two-story  building  with 
the  significant  words  of  the  scared  woman,  frowsy  and 
unkempt,  who  clattered  down  the  stairs  and  across  the 
walk,  halting  and  startling  him. 

"Mercy  o'  God,  sir,  what '11  I  do?"  she  cried.  "He's 
dead,  sir,  a-sittin'  in  his  chair.  Sure.  I  do  his  work  for 
him  an'  I  went  over  to  see  when  he'd  want  me  agin  an' 
the  door  was  open — I  lit  a  light  to  see  what  was  the 
matter — Ah!  the  dead,  white,  grinnin'  face  of  him! — an' 
whatll  I  do?"  She  wrung  her  hands. 


THE  LONG  ROAD  235 

He  had  listened  impatiently — what  concern  was  it  of 
his?  "Policeman  on  the  corner,"  he  told  her.  with  a 
backward  jerk  of  his  thumb.  The  charwoman  ran 
toward  the  approaching  officer.  O'Byrn  passed  on,  dis 
missing  the  incident  instantly  from  his  pre-occupied 
mind.  He  was  done  forever  with  the  affairs  of  his  un 
known  father. 

A  little  later  he  paused  at  a  corner  intersecting  Mul 
berry  Avenue  and  set  his  satchel  upon  the  curb.  He 
gazed  down  the  street  toward  the  dim  outlines  of  an 
humble  frame  house,  a  solitary  light  shining  from  a 
lower  window.  Long  he  stood  silently  regarding  the 
little  dwelling. 

Then  slowly  from  his  pocket  he  drew  three  letters 
which  he  had  written  at  a  hotel  hours  before.  In  the 
wavering  radiance  of  an  adjacent  electric  light  he 
scanned  the  addresses  upon  the  envelopes.  He  stepped 
to  a  nearby  letter  box  and  consigned  to  it  the  notes  pre 
pared  for  Harkins  and  Glenwood.  The  third  he  held 
hesitantly  for  a  moment,  regarding  it  through  a  briny 
mist.  So  this  was  the  end — the  miserable,  heart-breaking 
end.  It  was  now  for  him  the  long  road — alone. 

-Micky!" 

Swiftly  he  wheeled,  his  face  alight  with  a  trembling  in 
credulity  of  joy.  His  startled  eyes  looked  straight  into 
hers  that  were  mystically  dark  in  the  night  shadows  in 
truding  upon  the  shimmering  arc  from  the  street  lamp 
nearby.  Dressed  simply  in  coat  and  gown  of  the  brown 
hue  he  liked  so  well,  with  a  hat  of  the  same  shade,  she 
made  a  picture  to  rest  his  wearied  eyes. 

"It's  good  to  see  you.  girlie."  he  exclaimed,  a  break  in 


236  THE   LASH 

his  voice.  "But  it  isn't  wise,  is  it,  when  you're  just 
over  being  so  ill?  Where  have  you  been?" 

"Only  walking  about,  Micky.  You  know  I  grew 
stronger  real  fast.  Don't  you  know,  you  were  sur 
prised  to  find  me  so  much  better?  I've  been  about 
the  house  for  a  week,  even  helped  mother  a  little 
the  last  two  or  three  days.  And  tonight  I  couldn't  rest 
indoors,  somehow,  I  had  to  be  out  in  this  glorious  air. 
You  needn't  scowl  that  way,  I  had  the  doctor's  permis 
sion  this  afternoon  to  go  out  if  I  wanted  to.  Today 
I've  heard  of  nothing  but  your  story.  It  was  grand 
work,  Micky." 

"Don't,  girlie !"  His  tone  was  as  if  she  had  struck 
him. 

One  little  white  hand  touched  his  arm.  With  quick 
divination  her  searching  look  read  the  tale  told  in  his 
drawn  face,  in  the  sight  of  the  satchel  upon  the  curb, 
the  letter  in  his  hand.  She  gently  took  it  from  him. 

"For  me?" 

He  nodded,  he  could  not  have  spoken  just  then.  He 
swallowed  hard  while  his  eyes  hungrily  devoured  the 
rare,  fair  sight  of  her,  the  slightly  sharpened  outlines  of 
her  lovely  face,  the  pallor  that  was  the  heritage  of  illness, 
the  sweetness  of  her  eyes. 

His  letter  in  her  hand,  she  moved  a  little  away  from 
him,  then  turned  and  walked  to  the  curb.  She  rent  the 
envelope  straight  across,  and  tearing  the  residue  into 
tiny  fragments,  tossed  the  pieces  like  snowflakes  upon  the 
pavement.  Retracing  her  steps,  she  confronted  O'Byrn. 

"Tell  me  all  about  it,"  she  suggested,  very  gently. 

With  a  low,  bitter  cry  he  clasped  her  little  hand  in  both 
his  own,  stammering  that  he  was  unfit,  that  there  was 


THE  LONG  ROAD  237 

another  blot,  a  repetition  of  the  old,  wretched  story.  She 
understood,  and  there  was  only  a  low  exclamation  of 
sympathy  as  she  looked  into  his  tortured  face  with  eyes 
that  were  wonderful  with  forgiveness  and  love.  For 
she  had  known  instinctively  long  since  that  it  must 
always  be  so,  and  with  her  woman's  devotion,  had  re 
solved  to  help  him,  notwithstanding,  to  the  end. 

"What  did  I  tell  you  once,  dear?"  she  asked  him  low. 
"It's  for  you  to  always  try,  Micky,  and  what  credit's  for 
those  who  don't  have  to  try?  You  have  tried,  my  boy, 
and  you  must  keep  on  trying — for  my  sake.  Remember, 
dear,  you  can  never  fail  while  you  try — and  it's  trying — 
it's  trying  that  brings  us — where  dreams — where  dreams 
— come — true." 

The  low  voice  was  lost  in  a  stifled  sob.  Her  little 
hands,  her  poor,  thin  hands,  sought  her  face.  The  tears 
trickled  from  between  her  clasped  fingers. 

Miserably  he  sought  gently  to  draw  her  hands  from 
her  wet  eyes.  "Don't  cry,  Maisie,"  he  begged,  fighting 
with  his  constricted  throat,  winking  blurred  eyes.  "Why 
do  you  ?  It — it  kills  me  !" 

A  solitary  pedestrian,  passing  upon  the  opposite  side 
of  the  quiet  street,  gazed  at  them  curiously,  without 
pausing.  Neither  of  them  noticed  him  and  he  disap 
peared  around  a  corner.  Meanwhile,  eyes  searched  eyes ; 
presently  O'Byrn's  turned  away.  They  held  so  much  of 
the  desolation  and  shame  of  his  soul,  hers  only  love. 

"Why  do  I  cry?"  she  questioned  sadly.  "Do  you  re 
member  a  night — it  seems  so  long  ago! — when  you  asked 
me  that?  Do  you  need  to  ask  me  again?  Only  now  it  is 
so  different,  so — so  horrible.  God  help  me!  then  it  was 


238  THE   LASH 

the  beginning,  now  you  mean  it  for  the  end.  You  are 
going  away?" 

"Yes."    She  could  scarcely  hear  the  word. 

"Why?" 

He  turned  upon  her  a  face  she  scarcely  knew,  in  which 
warred  fiercely  the  stormy  elements  of  his  strangely  com 
plex  nature.  Mingling  oddly  with  a  numb,  gray  misery, 
there  was  something  else,  a  troubled  light  like  a  clouded 
dawn.  Full  in  the  radiance  from  the  street  lamp,  his 
eyes  burned  with  the  fire  lighted  from  the  dying,  crim 
son  embers  of  an  autumn  sunset  upon  a  hearth  of  gray, 
and  behind  the  flame  brooded  the  deep  shadows  of  de 
spair.  His  voice  was  bitterly  harsh,  dissonant ;  a  chal 
lenge  to  tearing  winds  and  thunderous  seas  of  life,  like 
the  wild  note  of  the  winging  gulls. 

"Why?  Why  not?  Girl,  I'm  down  again,  I'm  not 
fit  to  touch  you.  I've  just  told  you.  This  thing  was 
born  with  me,  it'll  die  with  me — I  hope.  If  I've  got  to 
carry  it — beyond — I  pray  God  will  snuff  out  my  soul — 
like  a  candle  !  Can't  you  see  it's  the  only  way  ?  To  go — 
alone, — to  bear  it — alone, — to  fight — alone, — to  lie 
down — alone, — at  the  end  of  the  long  road !" 

"You  leave  tonight?" 

"Yes.  dear." 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"Oh,  I'm  not  tramping,  not  this  time,"  he  answered 
wearily.  "The  letters  I've  just  mailed  are  for  Harkins 
and  Glenwood.  I've  told  them  I'm  sorry,  and  God  knows 
I  mean  it.  But  the  old  fever  is  burning  my  brain,  girl. 
I've  stayed  my  stay  here,  I've  gone  down  twice  and  it's 
too  much.  I've  lost  the  right  to  inflict  myself  further  on 
the  town.  If  I  stayed  it  would  mean  better  things  for 


THE  LONG  ROAD  239 

me  on  the  paper,  but  I  can't  stay.  It's  queer — you  can't 
understand  it — I  can't  myself, — but  the  time  has  come 
and  I  must  be  moving.  It's  the  old  voice  calling.  This 
afternoon  I  was  looking  out  over  the  harbor — that  old 
something  came  rushing  out  of  nowhere  and  took  me  by 
the  neck — sometimes  I  think  I'm  crazy.  I  put  my  hand 
in  my  pocket,  there  was  a  message  I  hadn't  opened.  I'm 
called  to  Denver — an  old  associate — something  bigger 
than  I've  ever  had.  They're  in  a  hurry.  I  wired  them 
I'd  leave  tonight.  I'll  be  with  them  for  a  while,  then  the 
trail  once  more." 

He  told  it  wholly  without  animation,  the  fruits  of  suc 
cess  as  ashes  upon  his  lips,  only  a  dull  hopelessness  in 
his  haggard  face  as  he  looked  full  in  renunciation  of 
her. 

She  moved  a  little  nearer  him,  eyes  holding  his  own 
in  solemn  questioning. 

"What  did  it  say — the  letter — out  there?"  She  waved 
her  hand  toward  the  pavement. 

"What  I  have  just  told  you — that  I  loved  you  too 
much  to  drag  you  through — what  I  will  have  to  bear.  I 
begged  you  to  forgive — and  forget — a  cur." 

"Micky, — do  you  want — to  go — alone?" 

He  had  to  bend  his  head  to  catch  the  whispered  words, 
though  the  beautiful  eyes  gazed  in  divine  fearlessness 
straight  into  his  own,  searching  his  shadowed,  storm- 
swept  soul.  A  breathless  moment  his  brain  groped  for 
her  meaning,  grasped  it  with  incredulous  joy.  The  hot 
blood  pounded  in  his  veins,  his  eyes  implored  while  fear 
ing  her. 

"Oh,  girl,  you  don't  mean — Ah,  you  don't  know  what 
you're  saying.  No!  I'm  a  dog — a  dog — I'm  not  fit — " 


240  THE   LASH 

Their  hands  entwined,  her  clasp  tightened  upon  his 
trembling  fingers.  His  halting  words  died  in  his  throat, 
he  only  watched  her  mutely,  his  face  a  queer  mixture  of 
misery  and  joy.  Her  wet  eyes,  twin  load-stars  lighting 
the  path  to  Eden,  smiled  into  his  own. 

"Listen  !"  she  said.  "Where  you  go — I'll  go — what 
ever  comes — I'm  with  you — clear  to  the  white  stone  and 
the  cross — and  beyond — for  /  love  you — /  love  you!" 

He  reeled  where  he  stood.  Ah,  this  love  of  woman, 
this  grace  of  the  gray  world  that  makes  for  the  glory  of 
God! 

For  wistful  thought  of  her  he  sought  still  to  put  her 
from  him,  weakly  tried  while  every  fibre  of  his  being 
called  for  her  who  was  always  to  rule  his  warm  heart, 
whatever  the  vagaries  of  his  foolish  head. 

"It's  a  long  road — a  road  rainy  with  tears — you  must 
travel  with  me." 

"I  love  you." 

There  grew  in  her  low  tone  an  odd,  wondering  exalta 
tion,  as  if  through  the  domination  of  his  vagabond  per 
sonality,  something  heretofore  sleeping  in  her  soul  woke 
and  stretched  its  wings,  longing  for  freedom,  for  the  riot 
of  mad  winds  and  tumbling  seas. 

"There's  not  a  soul  near  to  you  that  won't  grieve  for 
you — with  me.  Not  because  I  want  it  so,  but  because  it 
was  meant  to  be,  it'll  be  gray  skies,  it'll  be  often  an  ach 
ing  heart ;  it'll  be  from  pillar  to  post,  now  here,  now  yon 
der;  sometimes  it  will  be — in  hell — with  me." 

"I  love  you." 

Now  her  tone  held  in  its  full  the  divine  finality  of 
choice,  for  weal  or  woe.  Gravely  sweet,  solemn  with  the 
sublimity  of  unselfish  consecration,  it  told  many  things 


THE  LONG  ROAD  241 

to  the  man  who  stood  finally  silenced  and  overwhelmed, 
clasping  her  in  reverent  arms  close  to  his  lonely  heart. 
It  told  of  gardens  flowering  in  deserts,  of  splendid 
heights  heyond  that  pierced  the  blue.  It  told  him  of  the 
white  grace  of  self  sacrifice,  of  God-sent,  sustaining 
hands.  And  finally  it  told  of  calm  after  storm,  of  the 
haven  under  the  hill,  of  ultimate  and  abiding  peace  at  the 
end  of  the  long  road,  where  dreams  come  true. 


A     000  131  124     0 


